


Kinktober Prompt Fills 2019

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Asphyxiation, Begging, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Boot Worship, Bulge Kink, Collars, Cuckolding, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, Edging, F/F, F/M, Foot Jobs, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Humiliation, Lingerie, M/M, Master/Pet, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Rimming, Scent Kink, Shotgunning, Shower Sex, Spitroasting, Temperature Play, Tentacles, Vibrators, Watersports, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2020-11-15 07:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 34,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20862812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: Thirty days and thirty different Warcraft pairings, largely by friends' request on Twitter!





	1. Wax Play (Illidan/Kael'thas)

“What are you doing?” Illidan’s hair swayed about his chest as he tried to turn towards him. His tone wasn’t without the bite Kael’thas had come to expect, but there was a slight up-tick: a hitch, perhaps.

Kael’thas smirked, even though—or, perhaps, because—he knew he wouldn’t see it. “As I mentioned before, I am going to need you to lean back,” he murmured, placing a hand between Illidan’s pecs for emphasis. 

The night elf’s lips curled into a snarl, sharp teeth flashing between parted lips, but the sound that came out proved to be little more than a ‘tch.’ Pleased, the prince continued, his fingers abandoning Illidan’s skin and reaching, instead, for a candle perched by the side of his chaise lounge. 

It had always struck him as curious that Illidan kept these lights by his bed, knowing full well he couldn’t see them. He supposed it was a courtesy for his guests, the many consorts and serving girls that moved through his chambers. Even if he couldn’t make out the soft halo of candlelight, however, he kept his blindfolded eyes trained on Kael’thas’ hand. Another huff escaped him when Kael’thas’ fingers encircled the candle’s shaft, and a biting question seemed to form on his lips when the prince popped it free of the candelabra. 

Kael’thas lingered for a moment, savoring the attention. Finally, he smiled, and lifted the candle above the elf’s tattooed chest. 

The white liquid pooling around its wick quivered and rippled, threatening to drip forward, but he willed his wrist to steady. He was a prince, after all. He had practice controlling his movements. He held his breath and regaining his poise.

The night elf below him, on the other hand, did little to hide his lack of composure. The candle’s light played on the lines around his pursed lips, casting shadows to accentuate his displeasure. It was clear he didn’t know what was coming, and he _hated_ it. Kael’thas couldn’t help himself, taking a moment to chide: 

“Oh, Stormrage. I would have thought after all those hundreds of years in a cage you would have learned something in the way of patience.”

“Shut up,” was all Illidan growled in retort, and then, after another exhale, a curt, and familiar “you talk too much.”

“So you’ve told me,” Kael’thas teased. The irritation he sensed rippling beneath the surface spurred him on, but he feared if he chided too much the night elf would push him off the edge of the couch and storm out. He couldn’t let that happen, of course. 

Decisively, and with smirk, the elf tilted his wrist and let a few drops escape the rim of the candle. The flame wavered. The wax splattered with a soft ‘hs’ between his glowing tattoos, and all at once Illidan arced his back and shook the chaise lounge below him. 

Shock and frustration and need all escaped in a single incoherent shout. Kael’thas simply arched his brow and looked down at him, laughing, blasé, in the face of his anger, “Is something wrong, Stormrage?”

“What was that?”

“This?” Kael’thas chuckled, leaning forward and dripping a line along the curve of his pec. Again, Illidan reacted. To call it a squirm might have been too generous. The heel of his hoof hit the velvet cushion before swinging down to seek out the floor.

But Kael’thas simply leaned into his side. As undignified as it might look, he shifted until he was draped over the night elf. Illidan, of course, could have pushed him off, but instead he contented himself with a growl and another wordless complaint that Kael’thas quickly silenced. 

He dripped more wax and watched as it hardened against Illidan’s purple skin, its white trails pale and unearthly in the dim green light of their eyes. He followed the lines he had left down the night elf’s body, down to where they wandered to the side just before they reached his abdomen. 

The muscles he found there were taut—clenched, even—and just below them Illidan's leather pants tented with the pleading strain of his cock. Unable to help himself, Kael’thas smiled. His hand clutching the candle remained steady, but the other slid down to cup him through the garment, long-nailed fingers wrapping around his length and giving him a gentle, if not teasing, squeeze.

Illidan growled. The couch shook when the back of his head hit the armrest. Smirking back up at him, Kael’thas watched his chest rise, watched the candlelight flicker and play on the lines of his face. A few drops of wax escaped and dripped, hot, down Kael’thas’ knuckles to splatter just between Illidan's pecs.


	2. Rimming (Varian/Arthas)

It started with a single stroke of his finger down Arthas’ spine. The prince barely acknowledged it, mumbling something into his pillow but making no move to shift or lift from the mattress. He was too spent from their duel an hour before, far more spent than Varian himself, the king realized. Usually he would have rolled over by now and urged Varian to touch him where he wanted, for as long as he wanted. But for now, at least, he yielded to the king’s own curiosities. 

Varian savored that. Watching the back of his head as he tried again, he increased the pressure and trailed lower, only stopping when he reached the swell of the prince’s muscular cheeks. 

Beneath the pad of his finger, he felt Arthas tremble: a soft quiver that seemed to bubble from deep within. He knew better than to acknowledge it, however. He knew how Arthas’ face grew hot and his lips parted into a scowl whenever he was _called out_ for looking invested. 

Still, it brought a hint of a smile to the king’s grim face. Encouraged, he slid lower, thick brows knitting together and eyes trained on a lock of blond hair fanned out just between his friend’s shoulderblades. 

Varian slipped his finger between the swell of those cheeks, brushing through hair and lingering a moment—less than a second, maybe—against the man’s puckered hole. That finally earned a reaction. Arthas didn’t rise, but his back muscles tightened and a growl escaped him: a low rumble the pillow beneath his face couldn’t even contain. 

“Don’t put it in,” Arthas muttered. “I mean it.” 

“I know. I know,” Varian hurried to shoot back. It wasn’t a retort, really: just an assurance strung together by desperation and the barest hint of a huff. As always, though, he respected his friend’s boundaries, pausing, withdrawing his hand, and then, almost unconsciously, leaning down and pressing his lips against the swell of his friend’s backside. 

It wasn’t clear what he expected (or if he expected anything at all), but the cry that escaped Arthas made his eyes snap open. He lifted his head. His brown hair swayed and threatened to cling to his now-hot face. The realization of what he’d just done hit him at once, and he clenched his jaw, preparing himself for the worst. 

Instead what he got was compliance. Arthas tilted his hips slightly forward, spreading to his friend’s searching gaze. Varian opened his mouth to beg for an explanation, but no sound rose to the tip of his tongue. He balked. Arthas lingered, hips lifted, and pale hand wrapped around the edge of his grey silk pillow. 

Varian finally summoned his voice, but what came out was a mumble without any words. Staring, studying the prince’s white cheeks and the soft hair nestled between them, his chest tightened. Hesitation yielded to curiosity, and curiosity to the rush of blood that pounded in his head and swelled between his legs.

He reached down to adjust the tent in his own cloth pants, and then dipped forward. His lips brushed the small of Arthas’ back and then moved to kiss the roundness below. When he breathed in, he took in his scent: a musk he recognized from their days sparring and wrestling and the nights he had spent with the prince’s cock clutched in his palm. It overpowered him. 

Varian sighed, pushed back his own thick hair, and then let desire consume him. 

He nuzzled, closing his eyes and rubbing his nose against the dimple of Arthas’ hips. He then kissed again, just above his ass cleft, fingers pressing into the side of Arthas’ thigh for support. Before he could catch himself, he flicked out his tongue to taste the other man’s skin. It was warm, with only the barest hint of salt still clinging to it, and grew stronger as he slid down between his cheeks and through that soft trail of hair, until—

“W-what?” Arthas all but sputtered. Varian tensed and looked up. The throb of his cock against the front of his pants wasn’t even enough to rescue him from the shame that crashed over him. What was he thinking? What had come over him? What would Arthas think now, now that he’d done _that_ with _him?_ What would he—?

The prince cut his questions short, however, when he glanced back over his shoulder. His nose was wrinkled and his brows were drawn together, but there was a heat clinging to his face that betrayed…something else. Varian watched and forced himself to suck in a breath. It took a moment before either of them dared to speak.

“Do you want me to stop?” The king finally tried with a voice that lacked conviction.

“I—” Arthas seemed to mull it over, before shaking his head, blond hair tumbling off his shoulder and onto the pillow beneath him. “No. Just, don’t tell.”

“I won’t,” Varian was quick—too quick—to supply. A breath caught in his throat when he muttered back, “Don’t tell anyone, either.”

“Heh. Why would I? No one would believe me, anyways.” 

Varian couldn’t help but doubt that, knowing how his friend liked to boast when he was into his wine. That shameful possibility wasn’t enough to stop him, however, not with his friend’s musk and the faint saltiness of his skin still lingering on his lips.

He growled, and dipped forward, kissing, then sliding his tongue down between the prince’s spread cheeks to tease and trace a slow circle around his small, puckered hole.


	3. Tentacles (Rommath/Umbric)

Rommath’s eyes narrowed. He attempted to withdraw his hand from the other elf’s hair, but when he did, he found himself trapped. Something smooth and pulsing with unfamiliar energy encircled his wrist, and he stared, lips parted in protest and his cheeks a few shades darker than he cared to admit.

It was supposed to have been a formal meeting. The Grand Magister had hoped to have the Lord Regent present; he would have even settled for Alleria Windrunner if she could have tempered the rage that swelled in his chest when he looked in Umbric’s blue eyes. But instead the two of them had arrived alone, and were sat in opposition with only a carved desk between them. He had scowled beneath his collar, and Umbric’s brows had knit with his own frustration.

If this was the cost of peace, Rommath wasn’t sure he was ready to pay. After the ren’dorei made a few rude remarks and flashed a particularly loathsome sneer at his mention of Lady Liadrin, Rommath had snapped. A wine glass had hit the stone floor, and the agreement he had so carefully drafted had scattered like ghosts to the shadows. 

He was usually so poised, so _well-mannered_ even in difficult negotiations. But something about Umbric’s scowl begged to be subdued, just as it had that night he had banished him from Silvermoon’s shining gates. 

Needing to regain that control he had once wielded over the magister, his hand had shot forward, tangling in Umbric’s short hair and forcing him to meet his gaze. The ren’dorei’s lips had parted in wordless protest, or surprise, perhaps, until it seemed he had changed his mind. 

Wide eyes had narrowed. He had leaned into his side of the desk, and before Rommath knew what was coming he had felt his hair part, appendages he hadn’t yet noticed slithering free. At first they had brushed—no, caressed—the soft skin of his wrist, but then, in an instant, they had coiled and tightened like snakes surrounding their prey.

And now he was trapped, fingers caught in Umbric’s short hair and a line of Alliance guards waiting beyond the door to storm in at Umbric’s call.

Rommath huffed. His lips curled in disgust, but he knew the look was lost beneath his tall collar. He hoped at least the flash of his eyes would speak for themselves when he hissed under his breath: “What _are_ those things? You’ve done a number on yourself, haven’t you, Umbric?”

The magister shrugged. Rather than being put off by Rommath’s displeasure, it seemed to amuse him. He tightened his grip and sent another ripple of void across the sin’dorei’s skin. It throbbed, deep, and with a kind of expansive power Rommath couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t like the tempting kiss of the fel or the surge of arcane down to the tips of his fingers. It was an empty sky, a glass of deep purple wine.

He tried to steady his breath but instead caught himself sucking it down. If he were drowning, these were his final gasps. He stared. For a moment, all he knew were the blue orbs of Umbric’s eyes.

Finally, with a flash and a moan he came crashing back to his senses. “Get off me,” he snapped and tugged as hard as he could from Umbric’s grasp. He paid little heed to the tentacles, fighting their shudders and a final pulse of void power. When he finally broke free, he found a few strands of hair clenched between his fingers, which he quickly flicked away.

Umbric wrinkled his nose but made no other move to admit Rommath had gotten the better of him. In fact, from the way smirked one would have thought he had simply released him.

Rommath hated that even more. His pulse quickened, but he forced his shoulders to square. Any hint of anger or unease was sure to fuel the ren’dorei’s shameless sense of victory. He was trapped: even more trapped than he had been with his hand stuck in Umbric’s hair. To storm out was to concede, but to proceed was to open the door to…that, to that monstrous, hideous—

“Oh, that,” Umbric murmured. “That was just a taste of the powers my people have accessed. Do you want to know more, _Grand Magister_?” 

“No,” he answered, forcefully. But _yes_ was what threatened to escape. A door had been opened, and he had to see what lay beyond the threshold. He stood as if in a dream, wandering with his hand outstretched towards the expanse of eternity. 

Even though Rommath managed to stay locked in place, the ren’dorei saw past his rigid stance. It was clear from the way he smirked and arched his brow. “This is what you feared, wasn’t it, Rommath?” He whispered and then stretched out his hand, “This is why my work was so quickly dismissed from your study.”

“Because I refuse to see our people fall to another foul power, yes,” Rommath managed. His breath hitched, but he persisted, “To become creatures and _slaves_ like you.”

“Slaves?” Umbric searched his face. So focused on the way he stared, Rommath didn’t notice the tentacle he had summoned until it caressed the side of his cheek. He shuddered. His breath died in his chest, and any words he had planned to shoot back vanished from the tip of his tongue.

It was difficult not to yield when it pulsed and slid across his skin, and even harder when it slithered beneath his collar. It tickled just above his collarbone and then dropped lower to tease first his chest, then his nipple, each stroke drawing a shudder from his spine.

Where the Sunwell’s light felt like a hug, this was an embrace: cold, vast, and meaningless. It was a non-existence that tore from him his thoughts and drew him into its singularity. All he knew in those moments were those tentacles wandering from his neck to his chest and then nudging open his robes. All he felt was Umbric leaning forward and devouring him in the darkness until their bodies merged into one.


	4. Cunnilingus (Liadrin/Yrel)

Yrel inhaled, arcing her back as her horns brushed either side of the pillow. When she breathed in, she caught the scent of Talador orchid and the sandalwood incense they had carried throughout the space the night before. She reached up and turned on the lantern above the bed. Soon a series of cords overhead sparked to life and bathed them both in their soft, magenta glow. 

“Good morning,” Yrel murmured, looking down at the elf between her legs. Liadrin nodded, but, at least for now, remained silent. Her golden eyes narrowed; she looked resolved, determined, even. It was the same look the draenei had seen so many times on the battlefield, and once again, it brought a smile to her lips.

That smile was cut short by a sigh, however, when the elf leaned back in and traced her tongue down Yrel’s bare slit. 

Yrel’s thigh trembled as a jolt passed through her. She squirmed on the mattress and spread her legs wider, the back of her hooves sliding over the light blue silk of the sheets and knocking against the side of the bed. 

But it wasn’t enough for Liadrin, it seemed. Before she could finish moving, the elf’s hand was pressed against her skin just inches above her knee. She guided it to the side, splaying her, leaving her open to the magenta halo of light and the warm Talador air. Yet, Yrel couldn’t help but comply, no matter how exposed she felt. How could she resist, with that strong palm against her flesh and Liadrin’s breath hot on her lips? 

Yrel murmured gently in assent, and Liadrin dipped back down. Her auburn hair slid against her leg—a soft contrast to the strong, calloused fingers splayed over the draenei’s knee—and then her tongue was back on her. She brushed it over her lips and then sought out her clit between them, wasting little time with teasing to instead give it a pointed flick.

Yrel gasped. The back of her head hit the pillow, and the small of her back arched up to deepen the contact. 

Her nerves seemed to spark to life with each touch. First the elf licked and swirled her tongue around the swollen nub, then she wrapped her lips around it. It was all Yrel could do to keep herself from kicking the lip of the bed. She was wet—so wet—and it was unclear where her own wetness ended and the wetness and heat of Liadrin’s mouth began. All she knew was the pressure of the elf’s nose against her mound and the way her breath tickled and teased Yrel’s slit when she finally let out a gasp.

There was something about Liadrin’s self-control that made Yrel weak. While she herself moaned and called out in draenei, the elf remained poised. Her grip on her leg was steady, and her gold gaze kept watching, searching, even when Yrel’s own eyes pressed closed. 

It made the moments when the elf slipped and let out a cry matter even more. When Liadrin finally sighed against her skin, Yrel rocked down to meet her. Her fingers buried themselves in the elf’s auburn hair before sliding up to tease the sensitive tip of her pointed ear. This earned the barest hint of a tremble, but that was enough for Yrel. 

Moaning, rolling her hips, she let Liadrin take back her control. She could feel the elf’s lips purse against her slit, but then she was back, as strong and deliberate as ever. She rolled her tongue once, twice, then once more over Yrel’s clit and her finger slid down to press inside her.

From the stroke of her tongue to her sudden intrusion, she left Yrel gasping into the magenta light. The draenei's fingers abandoned Liadrin’s ear to grasp the sheets, bunching them in her grasp and tugging as her knees fell open and her lower body twitched. 

Another spark passed through her, and she tightened, consumed by the feeling of Liadrin’s finger curling inside of her and the way her lips wrapped around the swollen flesh of her clit.


	5. Vibrator (Wrathion/Anduin)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrathion is trans.
> 
> This is my longest prompt fill so far, ahah. But I guess favorite pairing privilege is in play here!

Wrathion’s eyes widened slightly, casting their crimson glow across Anduin’s hand and the small metallic object clutched between his fingers. Arching his brow, he studied it. His lips parted, but then he cut off his question, willing his confusion to settle, summoning a confident grin to his face. 

“Oh yes, of course,” he lied, punctuating his words with a soft laugh. “Of course I am familiar with it. But tell me, my dear, when did you of come to acquire such an item?”

“The last time father and I went to Dalaran,” Anduin admitted. Unlike Wrathion, it was clear he was being transparent. His eyes sparkled in the darkness, and his cheeks glowed with a heat that had nothing to do with the red light shining upon them. He giggled under his breath. His thumb traced along the bullet’s silver exterior, and it seemed to be taking much effort for him to meet Wrathion’s gaze.

“So, can I—?” 

“Of course, of course,” Wrathion hurried to answer. His voice rang through the space between them, a bit louder than he had expected. Snapping his mouth closed, he shot a look up at the ceiling. Thankfully, no sounds of stirring came from the king’s room above. Wrathion swallowed, willing his heart to stop racing, and then scooted back until his shoulder blades pressed into Anduin’s large, carved headboard. 

His slight movement made the mattress squeak. Anduin, too, glanced around, his eyes darting towards the door. After a few breaths of his own, he moved to sit up, his half-hard cock rubbing against Wrathion’s bare thigh as he withdrew.

The dragon watched and tried not to blush as Anduin’s pale skin and the light blond of his hair materialized from the shadows. It would be _most_ unbecoming to look flustered in front of the prince, even though the changes he had experienced since Pandaria had treated him oh-so-well. Wrathion’s eyes moved from his newly formed pecs to the soft trail of hair down his abdomen, and then to the base of a cock he could barely make out in the darkness but knew had gained at least an inch or two since Anduin first pressed it inside of him. 

Licking his lips, Wrathion waited. Anduin rolled the small, metallic bullet between his fingers one more time, then leaned forward and captured his lips in a kiss. 

Those, at least, were as gentle and hesitant as Wrathion remembered. The dragon sighed, his own mouth parting and the tip of his tongue seeking out Anduin’s. Trailing a clawed thumb along the curve of the human’s cheek, he murmured into their kiss. His legs parted and wrapped around Anduin. His hips rocked forward and he gasped as Anduin’s shaft brushed against his slit. 

A shudder seemed to pass from one prince to the other. Wrathion’s fingers buried in Anduin’s hair and the human fell forward, mouth pressing into Wrathion’s beard as he struggled to muffle his cry. 

It seemed for a moment the strange object might be forgotten, that they might rock together until desperation took hold and Anduin slipped inside, especially when the human’s hand hit the pillow beside Wrathion’s hair and the bullet escaped to roll down its blue silk slope. It was nearly lost to the blankets around them, nearly forgotten as they shared another passionate kiss.

Anduin sighed and rocked his hips. His hand slipped through Wrathion’s thick curls and down to cup his cheek. The crimson light between them flickered, then vanished, as Wrathion squeezed closed his eyes. But after a moment, Anduin seemed to come to his senses, eyes widening and hand fumbling into the blankets beside them before extracting the magical object. 

“All right,” he whispered, staring down into Wrathion’s face. “I’m going to, um, turn it on.”

Wrathion nodded, a bit too quickly. His curls swayed around his face. “Yes,” he murmured, and pushed himself back up. “Yes, of course.”

Anduin’s thumb pressed the base of the object and then it sparked to life with a hum. A circle of arcane light wrapped around it, and then the silver top trembled and buzzed with a power all of its own. 

‘Yes, but what do you do with it?’ Wrathion wanted to ask, but he couldn’t have himself looking naïve. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long for his answer. 

With brows knit together in earnest and a purse-lipped look now cast in shadows by the vibrator’s glow, Anduin extended his hand. First, he trailed the object from the hem of Wrathion’s binder down his abdomen, and then through the mound of dark hair below. It tickled, but before Wrathion had the chance to squirm away the tip was dipped into his slit—lower, a bit lower, and then firmly against the hood of his clit.

His eyes snapped open. He arched up and let out a cry at the sudden jolt that passed through him. Anduin froze, and it wasn’t until the dragon caught him staring up at the ceiling that he realized just how loud he had been. 

Fighting through his gasps and the sudden rush of blood in his ears, Wrathion all but sputtered, “S-sorry, my dear,” and then again, in a whisper, “I simply wasn’t expecting it to, to, ah—”

The bullet, which Anduin had withdrawn, it seemed, when he jerked back, now returned with a bit less pressure. Wrathion knew what to expect this time, but it still didn’t stop him from quivering when he felt its hum against his skin. 

Anduin swirled its smooth surface around the tip of his clit. Its pulse reached down to the cluster of nerves beneath and sparked each one of them to life. Wrathion’s thighs twitched. He must have looked most unbecoming, he dimly realized, but decided he didn’t care. How could he care with that thing rubbing against him and its vibrations shaking him down to his core? 

After a few moments of teasing, Anduin seemed to settle on a rhythm. He pressed his free hand against Wrathion’s waist and then slid up to rest their faces together. Between the pressure of his grip and the weight of his body on top of him, Wrathion no longer found himself squirming so violently. He breathed in and buried his face against Anduin’s neck. The next few jolts left him digging his clawed hand into the sheets, but at least the mattress below them had stopped squeaking so loudly. 

Biting Anduin’s skin to muffle his cry, Wrathion let instinct take over and his body do as it pleased. His hips rocked. His thighs quivered on either side of Anduin’s legs, and whenever the vibrator passed over that swollen nub of flesh his whole body tensed. It was stirring and electrifying and maybe even _too much_, but Wrathion had become a slave to it.

His clit ached, tension building and tightening inside of him. He wanted to savor the feeling, but, oh, oh no, he couldn’t stop the wave that crashed over him. Clenching, crying, he arched his hips off of the bed. Heels digging into the mattress, he shuddered, and then all at once, it came—he came, plunged into incoherence, knowing only pleasure and the weight of Anduin’s body pinning him and keeping him from curling up into himself at the rush. 

His chest rose. He fought for his breath against Anduin’s skin, and then slowly the details of him and the room started to come back into focus.

Anduin had switched off the vibrator, but his fingers were still between Wrathion’s lips, frozen, perhaps, in shock. Wrathion sought out his gaze, and when their eyes met, the dragon found his wide and searching, reflecting back Wrathion’s own. 

And there was another detail, another thing that made the blood drain from Wrathion’s face. He was wet, wetter than he had ever been: wet between his legs, down his slit, on Anduin’s fingers, and wet on the mattress just between their interlaced legs.

Oh. Oh no. Heat flooded his cheeks and he opened his mouth to say something…anything. The words died on his lips, however, when he caught Anduin’s flustered smile. “Well, that looked like fun,” he was clearly trying to tease, but his transparent shyness made it hard to feel _too_ accosted, “It was even worth lying to father to get it for you.”

“Prince Anduin, champion of the Light, _lied_ to the High King Wrynn?” Wrathion's breath was still labored and his voice more ragged than he cared to acknowledge, but the jest put some of his shame to rest. When he spoke again, he almost sounded his usual self: “What would he have said if he had caught his sweet, innocent son doing something like that? Thank the Titans he didn’t overhear.”

“Um, yes,” Anduin agreed, but his face offered a different reply. ‘There was no _way_ he didn’t overhear,’ his blush seemed to say. Wrathion stared for an awkward moment, before smiling, just as awkwardly, at the human atop him. 

“Well, then,” Wrathion murmured. His hand reached up to cup Anduin’s cheek, then slid back into his soft, blond locks. He eased him down, and the human finally cast aside the vibrator into the sheets before sliding wet fingers up Wrathion’s side. They embraced. Wrathion nuzzled his beard against Anduin’s neck, and then, after a few soft kisses just below his earlobe, he whispered, his voice husky and earnest:

“I suppose tonight was full of surprises for everyone, then, was it not?”


	6. Blowjob (Varian/Lor'themar)

When their secret meeting began, Varian hadn’t expected this to be on the table. Or—he thought to himself, the faintest hint of a smile crossing his usually-solemn face—he hadn’t expected the Lord Regent to end up under his table, between his legs, with his hand wrapped around his cock.

And yet here he was, white hair bobbing as he leaned forward. Varian watched, and Lor’themar maintained eye contact. Coming to Varian to beg on his knees should have been shameful, humiliating, even, for someone of his station, but none of it seemed to reach his face. Instead he remained cool, the pressure of his hand unyielding and his eye narrowing with all the focus of an archer on the battlefield. 

His lips slid down Varian’s shaft, and his beard brushed against the hairy skin of the king’s inner thigh.

Varian pursed his lips, fighting down the moan that threatened to escape him. Lor’themar had come to him, after all. No matter how focused and intent the elf stayed, Varian knew he had to match his resolve lest he look like a monarch crumbling before an enemy, and little more than an advisor, at that. He was sure that’s what Lor’themar wanted with all this. Why else would he keep watching him and searching his eyes for any hint of weakness?

Varian swallowed, and tried to lean back in his chair. It had been so long—far too long—since someone had been down between his legs, and the elf was so _good_ at it. This wasn’t Tiffin’s clumsy mouth or Garrosh’s tusks digging into his thighs. This was a measured assault, skilled and deliberate. He squeezed closed his eyes. Lor’themar murmured something against his flushed skin, and with that, a shudder overtook him.

Digging the heels of his steel boots into the cobblestone floor, Varian sought out the back of Lor’themar’s head. He didn’t intend to push; he just needed something to grasp onto. As soon as his fingers wove into the elf’s high ponytail, however, he felt him push back. He released his hold and opened his mouth to explain, but the sin’dorei cut him off with a curt, simple: “No.”

“All right,” Varian growled, feeling a bit like a dog who’d been scolded. He lowered his gaze down to his own cock, its flushed skin now bereft of the lord regent’s mouth. There was a hint of wetness lingering there, which only made matters worth. It twitched, and he dug his nails into the carved armrests on either side of his chair, as much for his own sake as to prove to Lor’themar he didn’t intend to grab.

This seemed to appease the elf, thankfully. He waited merely a moment, and then wrapped his long fingers back around Varian’s girth. With a huff and a haughty glare—his first hint of emotion since they had started—he opened his mouth and took him back inside, not stopping until the tip of his nose brushed against Varian’s hair.

The king groaned. There was little he could do to stop it this time, not with Lor’themar’s throat tight around his head. The elf neither gagged nor flinched, just swallowed, slid back up, and fell into a rhythm with his sucks. His white hair flickered and swayed in the waning lamplight. His grip slackened, then tightened, and it took everything in Varian to hold on as the tension beneath his shaft started to build.

Being sucked and _claimed_ by his adversary drained him of any resistance he had left. He’d let him have his way, if only for the heat of that mouth and the pressure of those slim fingers. 

Soon it became clear that Varian couldn’t keep holding on. The back of his head hit the back of his chair. He heard a cry escape him before he realized his lips were forming the words. “Ah, Lor’themar,” he gasped out, before lifting a hand in warning. “I’m going to—ah, fuck—”

His cock throbbed once, then again, as his cum splattered against the back of Lor’themar’s throat. Distantly, he knew he shouldn’t have done it, but it was hard to think with his body tensing and then recoiling in a flash of singular relief. 

And when his thoughts finally returned, he found the sin’dorei wrinkling his nose but making no move to spit it or scold him. Instead he simply remained on his knees, long brows furrowed, and his eye flashing as he searched Varian’s face. 

Varian offered a nod. From Lor’themar’s softening stare, he knew he had made himself clear. 

The sin’dorei would have their agreement, after all.


	7. Scent (Saurfang/Anduin)

Anduin pressed his lips against the rim of his mug, watching the sun cast its last rays of red and orange through the leather flap of the High Overlord’s tent. Taking another sip of the orcish ale he had been provided at supper, he finally set it aside and cast his gaze across the room to the orc lingering in the shadows. 

I need to discuss strategy, he had told Genn to silence his warnings and pleas. I need a moment alone, he had heard Saurfang whisper to Thrall before rising from their seat on a log by the campfire. But they both knew why they were really there. There had been a single, longing glance, then an understanding that didn’t need to be voiced.

With that, they had slipped away. Now they paused, each hovering on either side of the room, waiting to see who would dare make their move first. 

Finally, Anduin decided. Casting aside his hood and shaking free his blond hair, he took a few steps around the iron war table and stopped just before Saurfang. His gaze moved from his leather harness to the white braids framing his pecs, and when he breathed in, he caught his scent: thick and earthy, not unlike the beer that still lingered on the tip of his tongue. 

“Varok?” Anduin offered, his breath hitching slightly. He cursed how small his voice sounded when he uttered that name, but the orc didn’t seem put off. Instead, he reached down, cupped his calloused palm around Anduin’s cheek and used his thumb to tilt up Anduin’s chin.

Their eyes met. Anduin smiled: faint, and a bit awkward. For a moment, something passed over Saurfang’s face that could have been fear or guilt, but whatever it was was quickly cast to the side. His eyes flashed and his lips parted around his tusks. Anduin leaned back against the table, and with that Saurfang was on him.

The orc’s hands grasping the sides of his waist were just as strong as Anduin had imagined. His breath was hot against his cheek, and his braids were thick and coarse as they slid against the soft curve of the human’s neck. Anduin gasped and squeezed his eyes closed when he felt his tusk nuzzle against his ear.

When he breathed in, Anduin caught that same heady musk he had smelled that night in the Stockades: ashes, sweat, and the dry heat of a Durotar summer. It was exhilarating. He had often heard humans balk at the ‘smell of orc,’ but he savored it, letting it transport him to grasslands and nights by the fire and voices rumbling in a tongue Anduin himself barely understood.

Saurfang's touch was deliberate but restrained. Anduin could tell he was holding back by the way he lingered before touching a stray lock of Anduin’s hair and how his teeth dug into his upper lip when his thigh rubbed the bulge between Anduin’s legs. Hoping to encourage him, Anduin wrapped his legs around him. His fingers tangled up in the coarse hair behind the orc’s ears, and he murmured again, this time louder and more pointed: “Varok.”

Saurfang nodded. When he pressed forward, it was with his whole weight. Anduin’s back hit the cold, iron table and the mug he had left on the edge sloshed and splattered somewhere above his head. The orc’s body atop him left Anduin overheated, struggling to catch his breath, but he still managed a moan. His cock throbbed. His head pounded with the rush of his pulse, and with every inhale of Saurfang’s scent he felt claimed, consumed.

Sliding his fingers along the curve of Saurfang’s pec and through the thick crop of hair under his arm, Anduin finally reached his back. He dug in, knowing no amount of pressure he could muster would be near too much for the orc. Saurfang murmured and nipped the skin just below his jaw. Anduin felt something firm and bigger than he could have imagined pressed flush against the front of his pants. It drew another cry from his lips, and where it should have deterred him, right now, in this moment, it only left him wanting more:

“Please, Varok, I want you inside of me.” _This could be our last night on earth._

The orc growled and stared down at him. For a moment Anduin feared he might object, especially when he turned away and knelt to get something out of a bag on the floor.

The king soon discovered, however, that it was a small glass vial. Heat rose to his cheeks, but he forced his breath to steady. His fingers fumbled to untie the lacings holding closed his trousers, and when he got them undone Saurfang was ready to grab the pants on each side and yank them off of his legs. 

Now exposed, the human's cock twitched. Saurfang closed a calloused palm around it. Anduin had barely a second to savor that pressure before the orc withdrew again, twisting open the bottle, and letting the oil trickle from his sac to the cleft below. Anduin trembled. The wetness teasing his skin left him quivering, and its aroma—a kind of sandalwood, he guessed—mixed with the orc’s heady musk and the scent flooded his senses.

Intoxicated by it, he sighed and stared up at the tent ceiling. Something thick pressed squarely between his cheeks. There was a sharp tinge of pain, and then, just as Anduin sent a rush of Light down to assuage the pain, his body started to yield.

He stretched tight around the orc's head and then opened to accommodate his shaft. The Light’s warmth seemed to catch Saurfang off guard, because he huffed and growled, head bowing forward, fingers scratching against the edge of the table. Anduin was only dimly aware of the Orcish swear that left his lips.

He was too caught up in how utterly full he felt: the pressure, the way Saurfang’s hair tickled his cheeks when he bottomed out, and the ache of his own cock now leaking onto his lower abdomen.

He only knew his musk, the taste of beer on his lower lip when Anduin sought it out for a kiss, and the way his stone necklace swayed against Anduin’s neck every time he thrust forward into him.

Tomorrow they might die together, but tonight, at least, they could have their pleasure.


	8. Belly Bulge (Baine/Anduin)

Anduin rested his head on his pillow, staring up at the blue silk canopy overhead. Anything was easier than looking across the pile of toys beside him to where the tauren lingered two steps down. He could feel his friend’s embarrassment; it was a palpable in the space between them, especially when Baine let his gaze stray down Anduin’s naked body to the plug nestled between his cheeks.

The king swallowed and licked his lips, fighting to find his voice. When it finally came, it was strained and smaller than he had hoped, but for Baine, at least, it seemed to suffice: “Come join me. Please.”

There were a few heavy ‘clops’ against the wood stairs and then the mattress dipped, creaking and shifting beneath Anduin’s spine. He chanced a look to the side, only to catch the tauren studying a long silicone dildo he had convinced Valeera to acquire for him in Booty Bay. She hadn’t believed his half-hearted lies that he needed it for a practical joke, and Baine, it seemed, was quickly putting the pieces together, as well.

Heat rose to the tips of Anduin’s ears. Not sure what else to do, he let out a laugh and reached his hand to the side. He caught one of Baine’s furry fingers in his palm and gave it a squeeze. “I should be able to—” he admitted in a low voice, “—I mean, what I said in my letters was true. I was, you know, _practicing._” 

The word lingered on the tip of his tongue. If Anduin hadn’t known better, he would have thought the confession were spoken by someone else. Trying to regain some of the boldness that had prompted him to invite Baine upstairs after their meeting in the first place, Anduin pushed himself up on his elbows and mustered a hopeful look.

It might have even been a convincing one, too, if the change in position hadn’t shifted the long, metallic plug inside him. Instead, his smile was cut short with a sudden gasp. His cock twitched, and Baine’s eyes widened, all his composure shattering with a single, low rumble and a soft brush of his paw down the human’s side. “Anduin?” He murmured, and then seemed to add in silent concern. ‘Are you all right?'

“Mh?” Anduin managed. The hand that had held Baine’s thumb now splayed out on the bed beside his waist, just inches from the long toy. When the High Chieftain shifted his weight, it rolled down and Anduin lifted his fingers to catch it. Unable to look Baine in the face once he had it in his grasp, however, he just held it out to him, whispering a soft, simple “please” as he let his legs fall open.

It took a moment of shifting and few loud squeaks of the mattress that Anduin was certain could be heard downstairs, but finally Baine arrived between his thighs and used his large palms to spread him. His fur tickled Anduin’s sensitive skin, making the human’s toes curl against silk sheets on either side of the tauren’s knees.

Caught up in the feeling, he barely noticed when Baine released his grasp on one side to reach instead for the base of his plug. Suddenly, he was stretching, opening, and the fullness that had pressed deep into him all through the night came sliding out, inch by inch. A shudder passed through the king and when he cried out he wasn't coherent enough to care if he was heard. 

All he knew was the emptiness he felt when it left him, and the relief that washed over him when Baine replaced it with the slicked-up end of his silicone toy. There was a pause. The tauren opened his mouth as if to ask again, but Anduin looked down and cut him off with another short “please.”

This time, thankfully, the tauren seemed convinced. 

Returning his head to the pillow, Anduin drew in a breath and willed his body to open. The back of Baine’s hand—his fur slick with lube—trailed up Anduin’s thigh until it brushed the soft skin of his balls. Anduin’s cock throbbed. He reached down to grasp it but was cut off when the toy breached his hole and filled him the first few inches. 

Eyes flying open, he cried out and arched his back. Golden light rushed to ease his discomfort, and before he knew it, the cock had pressed up a few inches more. At some point, it always got hard to tell just how far it had gone. It frankly felt like it was probing his insides, getting lost somewhere inside of him. And Anduin, as always, loved it. 

His body trembled. His fingers dug into the mattress on either side of his hips, and when he met Baine’s eyes across his body, he did so with a smile: desperate, and a bit flustered, but steady. The tauren nodded. His braids swung forward to rest against Anduin’s belly. When he withdrew, Anduin saw the end of the toy moving inside of him, a bulge that slipped down and disappeared when Baine pulled the dildo out to the tip.

Blood rushed to Anduin’s face. He opened his mouth to say something, but any words he wanted to muster caught in the lump in his throat. He wasn’t sure if Baine had noticed or not, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off it. The toy snaked back in, and it returned: higher up than he had ever thought it could go. His cock ached and leaked against his skin just below the distention. The faint slick it left made him shudder, but still, he couldn’t stop staring. 

“More,” Anduin finally forced out on the heels of a hitch in his breath. After finally wrenching his gaze away from his own body to look into the tauren’s face, he clarified in a voice even higher and more ragged than before: “Please, I want you.”

Baine bowed his head slightly and rose up onto his knees. Anduin soon discovered that his cock, now unsheathed, had been straining against the front of his leather pants fighting to break free. When he unlaced the garment, it all but tumbled out, and Anduin stared. Each breath felt like a battle. Each second until Baine leaned down and pressed the flared tip against him seemed to stretch into eternity.

But then he was there. His cock was breaching him, filling him, and his breath was hot against Anduin’s chest when he guided it in to the base. 

Anduin reached up and buried his fingers in his coarse mane. Rolling his hips, he increased the pressure against his inner wall, leaving his cock dripping and his thighs clenching around the tauren’s waist. The tip of the tauren’s cock swelled and flared inside of him until the king felt like he might burst, and he cried, throwing back his head, a loud and earnest "please!"


	9. Pet Play (Genn/Varian)

“Good boy,” Genn’s voice remained steady even while he coaxed Varian’s head into his lap. The King of Stormwind’s hair tumbled across his knees, thick and tousled from being clutched moments before. The scratch of Genn’s beard still lingered on his lower lip, but all their fumbling and kissing against the war table had been nothing compared to the peace he felt now kneeling between his legs. 

There was something about Genn—a firmness, perhaps, or the wild energy he had brought to heel far better than Varian himself—that always managed to put him at ease. He hated to be vulnerable, but something about Genn got to him.

Hatred had been replaced by understanding, and with understanding had come honesty, and finally he had been able to utter the words he had guarded with shame for so long: how he longed to submit again. He wanted to feel the leather and metal of a collar around his neck and to bow with Genn’s strong fingers caught in his hair. 

“Come closer,” Genn commanded. His hand loosened just enough for Varian to scoot forward. His knees pressed into the cobblestone floor. Chancing a quick glance up, he caught the Gilnean’s cool blue eyes searching his face. 

Shame gnawed at the corners of his thoughts, but even as the king in Varian protested, the wolf in him only whined. He nuzzled his nose against the bulge in Genn’s pants, breathing in his scent. Savoring the smell, he lapped at the leather with his tongue, finally earning a growl from the man above.

Genn’s grip on Varian tightened, his thumb hooking through the metal ring sticking out of the back of his collar. “Not yet,” the Gilnean warned, his voice strained with lust Varian knew he was fighting to hold back. 

To enforce this, he gave the collar a tug and forced Varian back to kneeling. Despite knowing he was strong enough to resist and wanting so badly to fight it, Varian reluctantly complied. His hair slid off Genn’s lap and spilled down either side of his bare chest, quivering as his shoulders rose and fell in a huff. 

Frustration churned in the pit of Varian’s chest; his own pants felt far too tight. He gritted his teeth. A snarl threatened to escape him, but with much effort, he swallowed it. The pat on the head he received when Genn finally rose to stand by his side proved to be well worth his struggle. 

“Come, Varian,” Greymane said, simply, as his boots clicked across the floor. Varian all but fell forward, pressing the palms of his hands against the cool stone and crawling to join the other king. The silver of Genn’s cloak flashed in the candlelight as if beckoning him closer, out the door and into the private stairwell that led to the royal chambers. 

As late as it was, Varian knew no one would catch them, but that didn’t stop his heart from pounding as he took the steps on his hands and knees. Genn lingered on the first landing and watched. Looking up through his bangs, Varian caught the corners of his lips twitching in the halo of light. It lasted merely a moment, before the Gilnean turned away and returned to the shadow-cloaked stairs. “You better hurry,” he growled down at Varian with his hand clenching the railing. “There is no reward for dogs who keep their master waiting.”

Frustration threatened to take hold of Varian once more, but he channeled it into quickening his crawl. His knees ached as they knocked against stone and the tips of his fingers scratched at the grout between each smooth surface, but he kept going. His collar clanged around his neck and his messy hair swayed as he struggled and clambered to reach the private quarters above. 

At the end of one hall, there was another short set of stairs, and then finally he arrived at his door. Genn was there waiting, his blue eyes piercing—even in the darkness—and his lips set in a line.

He remained calm and poised, so unlike the worgen Varian knew fought to break free, the worgen who liked to best him at hunting and dig his claws into his back as he knotted and filled him with cum. But tonight Genn Greymane, the king, was in control, shoulders squared, and hand pressed against his door handle. 

Varian whined, and crawled closer. He rubbed his cheek against the king’s thigh, and then nuzzled the bulge in the front of his pants. This earned him a moan: a low, wild sound that seemed to rumble in the Gilnean’s chest before escaping his tightly pursed lips, a glimpse at the beast that thrashed and threatened to break free. But he quelled it, at least for now, instead grabbing Varian by the back of his collar and guiding him through the door.


	10. Hate Sex (Sylvanas/Jaina)

Their alliance had been tentative at best from the start of the trial, but today Sylvanas’ mood felt even darker. Jaina assumed it was Varian’s testimony that had put her off, but the darkness seemed…more than that. It seemed to linger in the space between them: a chill that had nothing to do with the icy Kun’lai air. 

Not sure what to say, Jaina resigned herself to it, leaving the tent's threshold and approaching Sylvanas’ table. A solitary glass of red wine waited for her. In front of the elf, there was nothing. 

Scooting back her chair and taking her seat, Jaina finally managed to catch her gaze. Not that seeing her face revealed much, of course. Her red eyes flashed—cold and keen—just like always, and her lips sneered in disgust at something Jaina couldn’t place. 

Discomfort started to well up in Jaina’s chest, but unease kicked up into _rage_ when Sylvanas finally spoke: “I heard what that dragon said to you. He made you look like a fool.”

It was heartless, so matter of fact, that it knocked the air from Jaina’s chest. She balked. Her lips parted to snap back in retort, but any sputter she could have hoped for died when Sylvanas shrugged. “When will you learn, Jaina Proudmoore? You have to stop relying on these dimwitted fools.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Arthas, Thrall, Kalecgos: what have any of them ever done for you?”

“What have _you_ ever done for me?” This time, at least, Jaina’s voice remained steady when she said it. Her anger had beaten down her shock. Clenching the end of the table, she gritted her teeth and tried her best to stare down the Banshee. She soon realized, however, that she stood no chance of countering such an emotionless face.

So she huffed and dug her nails into the wood. Beside the back of her hand, her untouched wine rippled and sloshed against the glass’s interior. She shook her head with enough force to send her white braid whipping against her cheek and then muttered under her breath, “You know what, don’t even answer that.”

Jaina forced herself to exhale, and after a few breaths she was ready to reach for her glass. Lifting it to her lips, she paused and cast Sylvanas a softened glance. She prompted, as collected as she could manage: “Never mind. Just tell me, what did your sister have to say this afternoon?” 

Sylvanas had looked like a specter in the shadows—lit only by her dark crimson eyes—but when Jaina spoke her whole face seemed to spark to life. Eyes narrowing and sharp teeth flashing, Sylvanas threw back her chair and rose to her feet.

Caught off guard, Jaina didn’t have time to steady the glass in her hand. Its stem slipped out of her fingers, spilling wine across her lap before rolling and shattering on the floor. Wet and stunned by the sound, Jaina stared at the blood red stain. 

She wasn’t aware of Sylvanas’ presence again until she was standing with her clawed hand on the back of her chair. “What did she tell you?” Sylvanas crunched the glass beneath her heels as she stepped between Jaina and the table. The human was trapped; her only option was to rise and push Sylvanas to the side...

...Which she attempted to do, but she found the Banshee unyielding. When she got too close, the elf caught her wrists in an icy grasp and clenched them together in the space between them. Whatever shock and horror Jaina had felt quickly turned to annoyance and _rage_: By the Light, what had set her off? What on earth had she said?

Why, for all Jaina’s caution, had she ever agreed to come here with somebody like Sylvanas? Why, out of everything she could have chosen to do, did she have to choose something so _foolish?_

Foolish. Jaina’s heart clenched before she realized why. Her breath died on her lips. Suddenly everything about Sylvanas just felt _too close._

From her frigid skin to a grasp as hard as metal and the absolute irritation Jaina felt whenever she tried to react, the mage had to struggle to breathe. The pounding in her head chased away her thoughts, and everything, everyone in the world, seemed to stop.

The next thing she knew, Sylvanas’ cold mouth was pressed flush against hers. 

The Banshee only released her grasp when she had pushed Jaina against the table. She kicked the shards to the side, then advanced on her, her nails digging into Jaina’s bare waist and her lips pressed against her ear. 

It was so dizzying—overwhelming, even—that the human could do little more than drape her arms over her shoulders. It wasn’t a gesture of affection, of course. She just needed some way of steadying herself as she avoided broken glass and arched her back to get some relief from the tabletop crushing against her. 

Her touch wasn’t like Thrall’s or Kalec’s. It lacked heart or warmth, and not just because her skin was so cold. It was almost like someone grasping at pieces of memories and interpreting them without assembling the entire picture.

Sylvanas bit Jaina’s neck. Her hand tore at the front of her robe, and then, in a single gesture, she plunged it under the belt of Jaina’s skirt and pressed it against her slit. 

The cold stole a gasp from Jaina’s lips, but her thighs trembled and shook. In spite of herself, she parted her legs and rose up onto her toes. With better access, Sylvanas’ finger could press in further, the pad rubbing against her clit and hooking up to press inside of her. 

It sank in. Jaina’s knees buckled, and she gave in, releasing her grasp on Sylvanas to press herself up to sitting on the table, pushing her wet skirt off of her legs and opening them to the unyielding touch of her enemy. 

Sylvanas thrust in again, using two fingers this time. Jaina threw back her head. Her hands fumbled against either side of the table, and unable to stop herself she whimpered something so desperate and _foolish_ she should have cursed herself for saying it:

“Sylvanas, please...I want more.”


	11. Mirror Sex (Arthas/Kael'thas)

Arthas let his gaze wander up the high elf’s back to where his loose blond hair swayed on either side of his face. Tightening his grip on his hips, he rocked forward, gasping as the other prince’s tightness surrounded him. He had always imagined his first time would be with Jaina, and yet here he was with another blond head bowed onto a magenta pillow and the soft hum of music and voices drifting in from the Dalaran street below. 

He dug his nails into Kael’thas’ skin and filled him down to the hilt. A gasp escaped from the elf below, muffled in his silk pillow. His legs quivered, and he arched his back to give Arthas better access. The human prince accepted his invitation, rocking, and then thrusting in with enough force to make the bed beneath him shake.

Arthas might be inexperienced, but he wasn’t about to look weak, especially not with the older monarch finally willing to submit. There was something satisfying about seeing him disheveled and sighing while Arthas himself stood firm. 

Squaring his shoulders, he reached down and caught Kael’thas’ hair in his grasp. When he thrust in again, he yanked on it, forcing the elf to lift his head and cry out into the brightly lit room. Even when Arthas untangled his fingers, however, he noticed that Kael’thas was keeping his chin lifted. At first, he mistook it for feigned composure, but then, after following his gaze, he found it reflecting back at him in a gold mirror across the room. 

Two blue eyes stared, studying him. He could feel them taking in the angles of his chest and the blond hair that clung to his brow. Their light faded for a moment when Arthas thrust in, but then they returned, lit up by the smug smile playing on the elf prince’s lips. 

Arthas’ own eyes narrowed. What on earth could Kael'thas think was so funny? He glared, digging his palms into his hips and slamming into his heat once again. The mattress squeaked, and Kael’thas dug his long nails into the sheets on either side of his chest, but the smirk never left his face. 

Arthas clenched his teeth, certain he hadn’t sighed or gasped. After a pause, and a few more thrusts, Kael’thas cut in to answer the question Arthas himself hadn’t voiced: “If you keep going like this you will be done in minutes. You’ve never done this before, have you, Prince Arthas?”

The blood drained from the human’s face. Catching his frown in the mirror, he replaced it with a glare, slamming his hips against Kael’thas’ cheeks. “Excuse me?” He muttered, a bit too breathy for his liking. He swallowed and tried again, “I’m not the one bent over like a whore, am I, Kael’thas?” 

“No,” the elf laughed through a rather unabashed sigh, “But you might as well be.” 

_Shut up,_ he wanted to growl, but his cock throbbed in Kael’thas’ tightness and suddenly he didn’t trust his voice. He could already feel his balls tightening, tension building at the base of his shaft, and he knew he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—let Kael’thas prove him right. 

Gritting his teeth, he rocked forward, then gave the elf’s hair another yank. The face in the mirror just kept smiling—a stark contrast to Arthas’ own flushed-cheeked glower—even when he twisted and pulled his hair. 

Arthas squeezed close his eyes to block it out. He didn’t need the elf grating on him like this, not when he was already losing his grasp. No matter how _irritating_ Kael’thas was, his tightness around his cock was irresistible. It took him in far deeper than Varian’s mouth and gripped him tighter than Jaina’s hand fumbling under his codpiece between kisses. 

It enveloped him, pulled him in with every thrust, and almost made him forget the face in the mirror for a moment. It was hard to think about anything else when his cock throbbed and ached, and his balls tightened every time they rubbed against Kael’thas’ sac between his legs. 

From the elf’s soft hair teasing the base of his cock to the tight ring of muscle around his shaft and head, everything in him begged him to yield. He cried out. His eyes flew open to catch Kael’thas’ indignant look and his blond hair swishing as he shook his head. 

“Already?” Kael’thas mouthed the word in disgust, but Arthas couldn’t care. Digging his nails into his skin, he gasped. The tension at the base of his shaft unfurled, he threw back his head, and came hard into the high elf’s heat. 

For a moment, with his chest rising and falling and his cock throbbing inside of him, the faces in the mirror finally lost their power.


	12. Lingerie (Nazgrim/Taylor)

The orc general waited in the shadows, his back pressed against a wood pillar behind the inn in Mistfall Village. His gaze strayed to the sun. It felt like he had been waiting for an eternity, but out here under a golden sky it was difficult to tell if moments or hours had passed. He sighed, shaking his head. His boots thudded against the stone walkway as he contemplated going back inside for a drink. 

A voice behind him, however, stopped him in his tracks. “Hey,” Taylor hissed, rapping his knuckles against the wood as if to get his attention. “Leaving so soon?”

As always, Nazgrim struggled to piece together the admiral’s Common, but he was able to follow the gist of it. Pursing his lower lip around his tusks, he feigned a look of displeasure. “Guess the Alliance can’t keep up their end of a bargain,” he shot back in Orcish, “I’m surprised you showed at all.”

There was a pause—a moment for Taylor to work through his retort, perhaps—before the human’s eyes narrowed. “I was away seeing to my king’s command in Krasarang. Unlike your Hellscream, he doesn’t want us digging around here in the Vale.” 

Nazgrim let out a huff at that. The ‘digging’ comment alone made the insult abundantly clear. Pressing his hand against the pillar above Taylor’s fist, he advanced, staring down at him with his grey eyes flashing.

Rather than looking intimidated or put off, the admiral shrugged, his expression softening. “I’m here, aren’t I?” He whispered in Orcish. His gaze wandered to Nazgrim’s chest, and when he looked back up, he was smiling. 

The muscles around the corners of his mouth seemed to relax when he switched back to his native tongue, “And I did what you asked, all day. I’m a man of my word, Nazgrim.”

“Let me see.” The words rose to Nazgrim’s lips before he had time to worry about how eager he sounded. Pressing his hand against the pillar, he shifted until he had the human’s back pinned against it. He didn’t intend to trap him, really. If anything, he wanted to give him some privacy.

It seemed Taylor didn’t realize his intentions, at least not at first. His eyes widened, and a flush spread across his pale cheeks. Even in Nazgrim’s shadow he seemed to glow. Opening his mouth, he gasped out something that didn’t sound like a word. Nazgrim just glanced from one side, towards the path to the inn, then to the other, back towards the mountains, before looking down pointedly at the buckle holding Taylor’s codpiece in place.

At that, the human sighed. One hand reached up to touch Nazgrim’s shoulder, while the other dropped to unlatch his belt. Nazgrim couldn’t help but notice his fingers quivering as they clutched, white-knuckled, around his green skin.

The belt clanked against Taylor's armor when the buckle swung free. The admiral drew in an audible breath, then set to work undoing the secondary latch. While Nazgrim may have knelt to help him if his intentions were to take him into his mouth or to let the human bend him over against the wall of the inn, today had to be different.

He let the admiral fumble with the latches alone. He waited as patiently as he could, though it was hard with Taylor’s hand clenching against his bicep and his breath hitching as he swung the codpiece out of the way and unbuttoned his under breeches. Nazgrim swallowed. Finally, he reached down and sought out the human’s hand. 

Closing his large palm around it, he followed it under the linen fabric and down to his thick crop of hair. The tips of his fingers brushed something silky—far more delicate than anything else on the human’s person—and tented by a bulge it could barely contain. 

Something tightened between Nazgrim’s own legs, and when he tried to speak his mouth suddenly felt too dry. He straightened his shoulders and he looked down.

In the shadow of Taylor’s open pants he could make out something red, something that caught the light and shimmered when he shifted his weight. Under its waistband, the human’s half-hard cock struggled to break free. The head peeked out from the hem to the side and the shaft pulled taut the silk that surrounded it. 

Fascinated, Nazgrim trailed the tip of his finger along it, then cupped him and readjusted it. He sighed when the he felt the human's tip emerge from the band, eagerly swirling his thumb around it then tracing the line of his slit. 

Taylor moaned. Digging his nails into Nazgrim’s skin, he leaned closer, until his face pressed against his shoulder. It was a shockingly intimate gesture, for them, at least. His vulnerability might have caught Nazgrim off guard under any other circumstances. But now, with his thumb teasing the human to hardness and the red panties fighting to accommodate him, Nazgrim didn’t care about anything else.

“All day,” Taylor muttered against the crook of his neck. His voice was nearly lost in his beard, but the orc felt it, and nodded with a toothy grin.

“Good,” he rubbed him again, his eyes narrowed in concentration. His fingers slipped easily along the slick fabric, and it wasn’t long until he was pumping the human’s cock through it. 

Taylor shuddered again and leaned closer. Nazgrim raised his free hand to the pillar above his head for support. Clenching the dark wood post with one hand, the other worked him, teasing him, smearing his pre in his hair and onto the hem of his panties. 

Taylor's cock jerked and throbbed in Nazgrim’s grasp. The orc worked him faster, until he was arching his back and burying his face in the general’s beard. And when he came, it was in two thick spurts that shot between Nazgrim’s fingers and splattered across his abdomen and onto the red silk tenting around his flushed shaft.


	13. Humiliation (Shaw/Wrathion)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Wrathion/Anduin implied)

Wrathion’s curled toe shoes clicked against the wood floor as he passed along a row of bookshelves on the left side of the room. On the right, Shaw sat at a desk, back straight and envelopes spread out before him. Wrathion could feel his eyes following his every move and tilt of his head, but he refused to acquiesce to them, choosing instead to revel in taking his time.

Trailing one clawed finger along the spine of a book marked “Katrana Prestor, history,” he arched his brow and shot a glance over his shoulder. He wasn’t threatening to pull it out, of course. He was merely testing the rogue to see if he would scold him. 

When Shaw said nothing, he slid his claws down either side of the spine, starting to wiggle it free. It was only then that the spymaster cleared his throat, commanding, simply and evenly: “Sit.”

“Of course, Spymaster,” Wrathion made a show of withdrawing his hand, extending his fingers as he approached. Bowing a bit lower than necessary, he paused, and then pulled out the chair across from the human. His own toothy grin was a marked contrast to Shaw’s squared jaw and lips set in an unyielding line, but Wrathion just shrugged, and maintained his usual charm. 

“When I heard you needed to see me urgently, I assumed it had something to do with the presence of a certain orc agent: Left, I like to call her,” he let his crimson gaze linger a moment on Shaw’s solemn face, before shaking his head and tucking a few stray curls behind his ear. “I feel I can clear that up. She is loyal only to me. You can count on me to—”

“That isn’t why I called you here today,” Shaw cut him off. Something about the spymaster’s voice—his presence, or, perhaps, the calculation behind every word—made it _so hard_ not to comply. 

While with anyone else, even King Anduin, Wrathion likely would have kept going, this time he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He refused to look concerned, but he would let the rogue take over, at least for now. “Oh? Well, then, perhaps you should fill me in.”

Shaw flipped open one of the envelopes on his desk. He wasn’t accepting Wrathion’s invitation; he spoke instead as if he hadn’t heard him. 

“During a routine sweep of King Anduin’s chambers last month, my agents located a collection of documents we believe you may be familiar with,” Shaw’s green eyes darted to Wrathion’s mouth, but the rest of his face remained steady and focused. “Now that you’re here and complying, I thought you could shed some light on the matter for us.”

‘Documents?’ Wrathion’s mind was already at work. He assumed, at first, it was some fragment of his research diary, and readied a non-committal reply. His voice died in his throat, however, when he saw the paper Shaw had extracted. 

A slip of purple emerged from the unsealed envelope, its flourishing gold script catching the lamplight when Shaw unfolded it onto the desk. Wrathion didn’t need to look down to know what it was, even if he wasn’t sure which one it was. He bit his lower lip, swallowed, and straightened his back in his chair. 

“Isn’t it a bit _uncouth_ to cease on the king’s private property?” Wrathion countered. He had hoped to sound smooth and ready to fight, but instead the words tumbled from the tip of his tongue. The room felt hotter than he remembered it being when he came in, sweat starting to gather beneath the curls at the nape of his neck. 

Clenching his hands together in his lap, he tried again, “He does employ you, after all, not the other way around.”

While Wrathion shifted in his seat, trying to sit up taller, Shaw seemed to be taking his time to spread out the letter. It was only after Wrathion caught him watching that he realized what the spymaster was trying to do. He wanted to scowl, narrow his eyes and shoot back another retort, but he forced himself to hold it together. After another inhale, and a few thoughts paid to the interrogations he himself had supervised back at Ravenholdt, he finally prompted, “Well?”

“That may sometimes hold true. However, these letters from you raise concerns that must be addressed,” Shaw replied, trailing his thumb along a bent corner of the paper. 

Wrathion again prepared to question him, but this time the spymaster didn’t let any silence elapse between them. 

“My dearest Anduin,” Shaw started to read. His serious tone stood in marked contrast to Wrathion’s amorous lines, “I am lying alone in a cave in Northrend, and I want nothing more than to be wrapped in your embrace. I long to feel your lips on mine. I have grown a beard, as you can see. I would rather like you to touch it, and let your fingers trail down by neck and to my chest—”

“Yes?” Wrathion snapped, squirming. Blood rushed in his ears, and when he extended his hands in a shrug, he found his palms dented where his nails had been digging into the skin. He hadn’t even noticed the tinge of pain until he unfurled his fingers and looked down. Huffing, he continued, “If your intention is to shame me, you are welcome to keep going, but I fail to see what this has to do with anything.”

Again, Shaw didn’t acknowledge his questions. He waited for Wrathion to finish, and then kept reading, as if nothing had been said. It infuriated the dragon, and if he had trusted his legs at all he might have pushed back his chair and stormed off. 

But instead, he was stuck. With no escape, he had to listen:

“I can tell you have grown as well,” Shaw recited, seeming to punctuate every word. “Your chest muscles are stronger now, and I don’t remember that trail of blond hair when I last settled between your legs. You have grown in other ways, I see, and even now as I rub my fingers against myself I wish it were you sliding against me, you filling me with your—”

“Ah, all right, that is quite enough.” The shock and shame and, frankly, arousal of it all made Wrathion’s heart pound. It snatched any composure he had feigned. His crimson eyes flashed, and he snarled, “Yes, I made love to your king when we were younger and yes, I did write these letters, which, might I add, were meant to be private. But calling me here to read them to me is obscene. How dare you, Shaw? This has nothing to do with you.”

It was only after Wrathion heard his chair skidding against the floor that he realized he was standing. Despite his lack of preparation, he decided to stay there. His hands clenched either side of the table and he leaned forward, glaring and letting out a puff of smoke.

It lingered in the space between them for a moment, curling, then scattering when Shaw responded in his usual steady tone, “It has everything to do with me, and the kingdom. As you know, your kind have a history of seducing your way into power. The late King Wrynn and I were well aware of your relationship, and he commanded me to let it play out. However—”

“Now that King Varian is dead you think you can govern what Anduin does in the bedroom? Is that it?” 

“No,” Shaw shook his head. Beneath his red moustache, he pursed his lips: the first sign of discomfort since they had begun their discussion. The emotion on his face passed as quickly as it had come, and it wasn’t long before Wrathion realized why he had slipped in the first place.

Following the human’s eyes down to the table, Wrathion watched as Shaw gave the envelope a shake and sent three photographs fluttering to the table. The top image nearly covered the others, but it proved to be little more than a small mercy, because staring back at the dragon was an image of himself, legs spread, and fingers rubbing on either side of his large clit. 

Everything in him died. He wanted to scream and set the pictures ablaze, but he couldn’t even do that. He could only stand there leaning over the table, shaking, clutching the wood, and casting his shadow over his once-wanton face. His stomach tightened, then plummeted. His knees shook, and despite it all, he felt himself growing wet between his legs. 

_By the Titans._ What was he doing? Why was he letting it get to him like this? 

Lost in his own chastisement, he barely heard Shaw clear his throat. It wasn’t until their eyes met across the table that Wrathion pieced together what he was saying. 

“I don’t bring these out to embarrass you,” the rogue whispered. Something in him seemed to have softened. His eyes kept searching the dragon’s face, but something had changed. Wrathion wasn’t quite sure what it was until he rose, and the lamplight returned to Shaw’s lined features. It revealed, of all things, the faintest hint of a blush. 

It wasn’t much, but at least Wrathion didn’t feel alone in his shame. It didn’t embolden him, but he was able to make eye contact with the human once more. 

“It isn’t my intention to shame you or the king, but we need to destroy these,” Shaw covered the photos with his palm, shuffling them into a stack and folding his purple letter on top of them. Wrathion might have been grateful, if not for the words that followed: “His, and the other side of the exchange, letters and images.”

Wrathion’s eyes widened. “No!” He snapped, before he could think it over. After hearing how desperate he sounded, however, he swallowed and tried again, “No, Shaw, I think not. Even if I did have images, which, let me stress, I do not—”

“You have images,” Shaw pointed out, his firm voice as infuriating as ever, “You described them in the letters.”

Wrathion scowled, his teeth flashing and chest rising as he fought to find his voice, “Well, maybe I left them at home?”

“You’re homeless, Wrathion. That’s why you’re here.”

“Well, perhaps I destroyed them already.”

“You didn’t. You have them with you in your backpack.”

“Did you _look_?” With each word, Wrathion’s voice grew higher and his skin grew hotter beneath his collar. No matter what he said, no matter how close he got to regaining his usual poise and charm, the spymaster kept snatching it away. 

All that was left in its place were shaking knees, an embarrassing wetness between his legs, and a voice he couldn’t stop from hitching when he desperately needed to look calm. He cursed Shaw, and he cursed himself. 

The rogue refused to answer his question at first, instead splaying his palm over the letters and pictures and sweeping them back into the envelope. Once he had tucked them inside, he resealed it, and added it to a pile of at least six or seven more. After sighing and rubbing his thumb between his brows, he muttered, “Wrathion, I know you have them. Just give them to me and make this easy.” 

“I’m not here to break up Romulo and Julianne. I just can’t risk you blackmailing the throne with them,” Seeming to anticipate Wrathion’s protest, he removed his hand from his forehead and held it up in warning instead, “Or wait until a serving maid steals them and sells them to the Stormwind Herald. It was an irresponsible thing to do, for both of you.”

‘So tell him that,’ Wrathion wanted to shoot back, but he suspected he already had. The thought of Anduin standing alone with Shaw, shaken, with the same flush on his cheeks and a frustrated throbbing between his legs made Wrathion feel…something. 

Willing himself not to let his arousal show this time, he tried, in one last, desperate attempt, to throw it back on the rogue. Narrowing his eyes and leaning over the table, the dragon snaked his clawed hand out to shake the letter free from the spymaster’s grasp. It didn’t budge. He hadn’t expected it to. 

Wrathion lowered his voice, and hissed, “How do I know you don’t intend to keep them for your…personal use, whatever that may be?”

It wasn’t enough to make Shaw relent his grasp, but it did bring on a change in his posture. His shoulders squared, and he coughed, digging his fingers into the table on either side of the envelope. Wrathion could have sworn he caught his pale skin turning pink, but maybe the room really was just too hot.

Either way, Shaw quelled his own shame far faster than Wrathion had. After a moment, the only evidence of it that remained were a few pronounced lines around his mouth, a noticeable tightness in his jaw, and the faintest hint of a tremor at the tip of his fingers as they brushed against Wrathion’s claws on the table.

Despite it all, he kept his voice steady and his green eyes fixed on Wrathion’s face when he muttered, “You can watch me burn them, but you're going to give them to me, now.”


	14. Feet (Garrosh/Varian)

Varian sighed, leaning back his head against the prison cart’s iron interior. Beyond its walls, he could barely make out Jaina’s voice as she said something to the Shado-Pan escort. Other than that, there was silence. Whatever flames Garrosh had attempted to stoke while Taran Zhu had served as his watchman seemed to have died the moment the human came to take his place.

Or perhaps he had run out of steam at last, Varian mused. Turning his head towards the bulky figure in the shadows, Varian studied his face. Garrosh's lips, pursed tightly around his tusks, were swollen and cracked, and his gaze was distant, detached. It revealed nothing—or maybe everything—about his state of mind and the orc he had become in the weeks after the Heart of Y’shaarj had arrived in his city.

Shaking his head, the king willed his own face to match the orc’s distant look, but it was hard not to let his frustration get the better of him. He wanted to snap and scold Garrosh for everything: for his attack on Anduin, for bombing Theramore, for letting it get _this bad_ instead of reaching out. He forced it all down, however. No matter how many questions remained, he couldn’t make himself fight with someone who looked so utterly broken.

The cart caught a bump in the road. The wheels squeaked, and Garrosh’s chains clanked and rattled in his lap. He looked up and his gold eyes narrowed. 

“What?” The orc muttered, his small nose wrinkling when they finally made eye contact. “Are you enjoying the view?”

“What, Garrosh?” Drawing in a breath, Varian willed himself not to rise to the bait. He managed to choose his words carefully (for now), but his voice still sounded far too weary for his liking. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw you staring at me, Wrynn. Are you reminiscing, or do you just like seeing me debased?”

The accusation hit hard: harder than Varian had anticipated. His heart clenched, and any concern or regret he had felt at the sight of his former rival started to crumble. He had put his life and reputation on the line to save Garrosh, and now the orc had the audacity to fling it back in his face like he’d done it for, what? Lust? One last chance to have Garrosh’s hand on his cock?

Seething, he retorted, as much for himself as for Garrosh, “You’re trying to test me but it isn’t going to work. You’re damn lucky I felt sorry for you. What more could you possibly want from me?”

The question seemed to catch Garrosh off guard. He opened his mouth, but it wasn’t to snap back at him. What came out this time felt, for once, like an honest answer: “I just want to know why.”

Frowning, Varian watched him for a moment. The cart dipped again, and when it did, the full face of the moon came into view through the slatted window at the top of the door. Its light striped the floor between them; the human dug his shoulder blades into the wall as he struggled to remain in the shadows. When their movement finally evened, he mumbled, “I felt sorry for you. Leave it at that, Garrosh. Just be grateful you aren’t a pile of ashes right now.”

Garrosh exhaled, saying nothing before he shifted his weight and closed his eyes. Varian expected some kind of comeback, but when nothing came, he too leaned against the wall and tried to push his own doubts out of his mind.

For a while, there was only the wheels of the cart squeaking beneath them and the occasional glimmer of the moon through their slatted window. 

But just as Varian started to drift off to sleep, he heard Garrosh’s chains clanging together and felt the large orc shifting his weight. Opening one eye, he stared as the orc extended his leg and brought his bare foot to rest mere inches from Varian’s.

‘What is he playing at?’ The king thought. His other eye opened, and his brows knit together as he watched him. Whatever Garrosh was trying to do, he seemed determined and focused, too preoccupied to meet Varian’s gaze.

The human knew he should probably stop him, but when he started to question him, Garrosh shifted again and dragged his foot up Varian’s thigh. Caught off guard by the sudden touch, he only managed to gasp out a single word before his voice stuck in his throat:

“_What?_”

Garrosh seemed undeterred. His gold eyes found Varian’s in the shadows and narrowed. Stretching out his leg, he wiggled his toes against the human’s knee. The teasing gesture stood in sharp contrast to the defiance on his scowling face, and it felt as though he were challenging Varian to say more.

He was being tested again, and he knew it, but it was hard for Varian to do anything, much less to scold him, with the arch of his big orc foot pressed against his thigh. He yielded. Biting his lip, he swallowed, and directed his gaze to the iron ceiling overhead. A shudder passed through him, and, unbidden, his legs fell open. How long had it been since anyone had touched him like this?

‘Two years,’ Varian reminded himself, ‘Just after Garrosh accepted the mantle of Warchief and you decided to say goodbye.’ It had been his cock, not his foot, that pressed against him that night, but the memories came flooding back all the same. Garrosh’s strong fingers had gripped them together, and when he had come, it had splattered between the orc’s fingers and dripped down onto the floor. 

Now the orc’s toes curled against the soft curve of his balls through his pants, then traced the length of his shaft before wiggling just below his waistband. He pressed in, and Varian’s cock throbbed under his heel. The king threw back his head and clenched his hands into fists by his side.

“Why?” Varian managed to gasp. His voice came out low, barely audible, though he wasn’t sure if this was a choice he had made or not. All he knew was that every word weighed on his tongue like a curse, “Garrosh, whatever you’re trying to do here—”

“You know what I’m trying to do, Wrynn,” Garrosh growled from the shadows. His voice echoed off every wall, and Varian realized, with a sharp intake of breath, that he might be overheard.

He shot Garrosh a look, but the orc didn’t relent. He curled his toes around his head, then slid his instep across him. An ache started to build beneath Varian’s shaft and his pants strained to keep accommodating him. He cursed himself, but it didn't make him enjoy it any less.

He had wanted this for so long, and now Garrosh was here and it might be their last hour together and his foot felt so large rubbing between Varian’s inner thighs. Slowly, he lowered his gaze. The sight of Garrosh’s brown toes against his pants made his tremble. He bit down on his lower lip to stifle his groan. 

It wasn’t supposed to end up like this, but Varian didn’t have it in him to tell him to stop. Whether it was pent-up feelings or some bid to settle the score for what Varian had done for him back in Orgrimmar, the king couldn’t be sure.

All he knew was that Garrosh was touching him again, and his cock was twitching and leaking against the front of his pants as he rolled his hips up to meet him.

The rattle of Garrosh’s chains and the audible hitches in Varian’s breath were the only sounds that remained now. Varian unclenched his fists and instead dug the tips of his fingers into the floor on either side of his body. His nails scratched iron and his knuckles whitened as he fought to gain purchase, but it wasn’t enough to keep his heels from sliding towards the opposite wall. 

As Garrosh’s foot fell into a rhythm, its toes curling around his shaft and stroking up to the wet spot just below his waistband, every nerve in the human seemed to spark to life. His muscles tightened. Something hot and desperate started to build beneath the base of his shaft.

The cart shuddered, but the clank and squeal were hardly enough to drown out the moan that poured from his lips. All the questions, frustrations, and grief in him seemed to come to a head, only to be snatched and dragged down into a sea of need. The back of his head hit the wall. He squeezed closed his eyes and thrust upward into Garrosh’s touch.

The tension that had built inside him tightened, then unfurled, and he came in a single, frantic spurt against the arch of Garrosh’s foot.


	15. Cuckolding (Shaw/Flynn/Taelia)

Flynn lifted his head from the wooden surface of the desk, gazing at the woman who had moved to stand in front of him. Black panties hugged her hips, their waistband dipping slightly to reveal the sharp line of her lower abs. Simple though they were, he had never seen her in something so delicate before. He gazed up and flashed her a grin, a bit goofier than he intended.

Meeting his gaze, she smiled, a hint of a blush blooming on her cheeks. Her bare breasts rose as she drew in a breath, and her hand trembled slightly as it reached down and tucked back a stray lock of his light brown hair. 

He couldn’t help himself. He laughed and grinned until the corners of his lips started to ache. By the gods, he wondered, what had he done to gain the affections of such a strong and beautiful woman? 

Not only that, but how had she agreed—enthusiastically, even—to take part in something like this? 

A firmer and more calloused hand on his hip tightened, and then another pair of hips squared against his backside. Taelia let out a soft exhale and lifted her green eyes to stare at the figure behind him. The spymaster, however, barely seemed to acknowledge her. Instead he kept his thrusts even, his hair brushing the cleft between Flynn’s cheeks and the head of his cock pressing between Flynn’s inner thighs. 

Distracted as he was by Taelia’s body, he forgot to clench his legs together until he felt his shaft nudging his balls. He tried to adjust, but it was too late. Shaw grabbed his ponytail and, in one smooth motion, pressed his face against the wood. 

“She’s distracting you,” the spymaster pointed out, as irritatingly on-the-nose as usual. He slackened his grip only slightly when he finally lifted his head to acknowledge Flynn’s girlfriend in front of him. 

“Miss Fordragon,” Shaw’s voice was softer when he addressed her, but it still held the same commanding presence, “Perhaps you would like to take a seat?” 

Flynn couldn’t tell if he had nodded towards the chair in the corner or not; the strength of Shaw’s hold on his hair and his waist hadn’t slackened at all. But he must have done…something, because he heard Taelia’s hair swish about her face and a soft murmur escape her. 

“Okay,” she went to the chair, just out of Flynn’s field of vision. He heard it squeak and bump across the floor, and then it seemed to settle just to their right. Although he couldn’t catch a glimpse, he could feel her presence: the way she relaxed and maybe even spread her legs. 

He wanted to see, to watch her trail her fingertips down her chest before rubbing them along her slit through the thin black panties. He wanted to see her face light up when she giggled and watch her eyes widen when Shaw uncorked the same bottle of oil he had previously used to slick his cock to let it drizzle now between Flynn’s spread cheeks. 

But he couldn’t, not with Shaw’s hand in his hair and his hips squared against him. It _bothered_ him. It drew a huff from his lips and made his cock ache between his legs. He tried to push back, to rock forward, to get some kind of friction from the edge of the table, at least.

All he earned in response was a growl from Shaw, and a tease—soft but pointed—from the woman sitting beside him: “Flynn, I thought you were going to behave.”

They were insufferable, the both of them. How had someone like him ended up getting worked up not by one, but by _two_ control freaks? 

It only took the head of Shaw’s cock pressing against his hole, stretching, then penetrating him, and the murmur that fell from Taelia’s lips as she watched, for Flynn to remember the answer. When the spymaster filled him in one firm thrust, however, even that was forgotten.


	16. Bondage (N'Zoth/Wrathion)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This is darkfic and contains non-consensual touching. Please proceed with caution!

Wrathion stumbled forward, and then his knees hit the black stone floor. Lifting his gaze, he struggled to piece together where he was and how he had come here. He remembered falling asleep in a cave on the road to Redridge, and after that—

A hand, perhaps, in his hair? The grip still lingered, even though he couldn't recall the face or form attached to it. The cold had swept over him, enveloping him on all sides like the sea sweeping over a drowning sailor, and then he had tripped on the stairs. 

And then he had found himself alone. 

His shoulders ached. He tried to roll them forward, but when he did, he realized he was chained at the triceps, the elbows, and the wrists. His clawed fingers dangled uselessly. His only option, it seemed, was to lace them together or let them clamor to find their space. He chose to do the former, but with some reluctance, as his palms were already clammy and slick. 

He forced air into his lungs. After a few jagged breaths, the details around him started to come into focus. His curls clung to his brow and a drop of sweat rolled from his temple down to his beard. On every side, he was drenched in darkness and silence, except for a single murmur in a voice he once knew too well:

“Wrathion? Wrathion, where are you?”

He tried to follow the noise, looking left, and then right, before fighting to rock back onto his feet. It took a few tries. Standing with his arms bound would have been difficult enough, but it proved nearly impossible while every muscle in his shoulders and neck cried out in pain. 

But after a slip and a thud against the black stone he managed to make it, having determination on his side. His heart pounded, and the rush in his ears sounded like a thousand whispers at once. Knees quivering and back arching to give his shoulders a rest, he stepped forward. His heels clicked. He clung to the sound. It was the only thing that felt concrete in this dark sea of nothing and everything, until—

“Wrathion, we’re going to be late! Tell me you aren’t still in the bathtub. Everyone is already outside waiting.” 

It was Anduin. This time, he knew. All at once, the veil around him was tugged away, revealing, moment by moment, the crisp details of the room. Beneath his feet lay a white-tiled floor inlaid with swirls of blue and gold. He couldn’t remember standing in this room before, but he knew. He knew the gold faucet behind him, and the mirror where he had once seen Anduin’s pink face beaming.

It was in one of the photographs the king had sent him, was it not? His backpack and that thick stack of letters felt like a distant memory. When had he received them? When had he flipped through them and smiled at the king's every blush and kind word? 

He looked into the mirror for answers, but the figure he saw gazing back at him was jumbled and blurred. Even though he knew it was himself, he couldn’t pin down the red of his eyes or the dark hue of his skin. Squeezing closed his eyes and flexing his fingers—where were they now? Titans, he couldn’t tell—he tried again. The light came back, but it still offered no answers.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to linger too long with that sinking feeling. A pair of knuckles rapped at the door, and then that soft, familiar voice whispered, “Wrathion, is everything all right? Please tell me you aren’t in there getting cold feet.”

The dragon hurried to the threshold. His heels clicked against the tiles, and he leaned his forehead against the door to respond: “Cold feet? Cold for what, my dear?”

The cold: it had passed through his body before swallowing him, he remembered. Maybe Anduin knew?

But instead of the reassurance he expected, what he got was a chuckle and a quip, incredulous but not impatient: “For our wedding? Wrathion, you haven’t been into the champagne already, right? We’re supposed to wait until the reception.” 

“I—” The dragon’s jaw went slack. _Had_ he been into the champagne already? He couldn’t make out a glass in the bathroom or remember the cork popping over the sink, but it certainly would explain why the edges of his vision blurred and swayed. 

“I don’t…think so,” he ventured, but his voice lacked its usual confidence. He swallowed, then tried to speak louder, “But I am afraid I do not remember. My apologies, your Majesty.”

While he recalled Anduin scolding him once before—back at the Tavern, perhaps—for drinking when he wasn’t supposed to, today the human’s voice remained calm. Wrathion could almost hear his lips curling into a smile. “It’s okay to be nervous, but please hurry up. I’ll be waiting for you on the balcony.”

“Yes, of course!” Wrathion was quick to reply. It was only after he heard Anduin’s footfalls fade into the distance, however, that he realized he could open the door.

His shoulders still ached, but his arms seemed to swing free. He turned the knob and then stepped through another dark veil into what seemed to be a spacious bedroom. 

Though, again, the details resisted his comprehension. One moment he saw a wood floor, but the next the path in front of him looked like a set of stone stairs he had scaled on his only visit to the Vale. He had walked beside Anduin that night, up to a golden pavilion overlooking a pond. The plum blossoms’ rich aroma had filled the air, and overhead fireworks had hissed and spiraled down to the earth like serpents. 

He took a step forward, and the darkness returned, then the bedroom with its canopy bed. The headboard, at least, he remembered. Anduin had propped himself against it and spread his legs before snapping a photograph. Everything else blurred and shook beneath him like the ship had swayed on its way back from Northrend. 

He had poured over Anduin’s letters that night, but the next morning he had turned from Elwynn and had set his course to Karazhan. He hadn’t been to the Keep. He hadn't stood in this room, let alone courted and proposed to the king. That had only been a dream that had comforted him at night when his heart had raced and he had felt Azeroth start to sob and tremble.

She trembled now, too, but it was hard to despair when the doors before him swung open and sunlight cascaded on his face. He blinked and gazed out to the stone balcony to find Anduin, taller and stronger than he remembered, with his gold hair gathered in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. 

He turned and offered Wrathion a soft smile. What should have warmed the dragon’s heart, however, instead made it plummet in his chest. Anduin glowed, but he…was wrong. His eyes were dark and emotionless. His teeth flashed between parted lips. When he extended his hand, it was like a shadow twisting and writhing as it passed over Wrathion’s face.

His touch was cold, so cold, and when he cupped Wrathion’s skin it was to drag him forward. Again, Wrathion's knees hit the ground, but this time it was Anduin’s hand yanking his hair and forcing him to stare through the balustrades down at the roaring crowd. 

The sky overheard turned purple. It was hard for Wrathion to tell where Anduin’s shadow ended and the darkness began. He shuddered and yielded to the hand pressing his forehead against the stone. The figures clustered below started to come into focus. 

There was Jaina and Varian Wrynn seated together on one side of the room. On the other, he saw Thrall and his wife with her child cradled to her chest. Down the row he spotted Kalecgos, his blue hair swaying about his face as he rose and shuffled past the Dragon Queen. Wrathion's agents were there, as well, with an empty seat waiting for him between them, and behind them, a mob of champions and citizens jeering, stamping their feet, spitting out insults that made his stomach twist into knots:

“Monster! Murderer! We don’t want your kind here!” 

Somebody threw an apple. It hit the railing beside his face before dropping with a thud to the courtyard below. 

“Hang him! Make him pay for his crimes! The people of Stormwind demand justice!”

Squeezing closed his eyes, Wrathion willed them to stop. His head pounded as he tried to make sense of the scene. ‘This isn’t for you,’ a voice in him insisted, ‘This is Garrosh’s trial. You were there, standing beside Kairozdormu and looking for Anduin in the crowd. Don’t you remember? Don’t you see?’

He did see, and he remembered. He remembered that Varian Wrynn had passed away last year, that the chill that bit his cheeks now was the same cold that had chapped his lips back in the Temple of the White Tiger. He fought to cling to that realization, but with every shout it started to slip away.

What replaced it was a hand, cold and purple, clenching his chin and forcing him to look up. A pair of bottomless eyes stared down at him, swallowing all the life and joy that had shone on Anduin’s beautiful face. 

“There’s nothing for you in Stormwind,” the king’s lips parted, but he spoke in a voice that wasn’t his own. It made the earth tremble beneath him and scattered like a thousand whispers on the wind. The hand on Wrathion’s chin loosened its grip to tease his beard with its nail, but when it finally reached his skin it shifted again.

Soft skin turned thick and slimy, and it dragged a cold trail across his cheek. All at once, it plunged in his mouth, and as he gasped, choking and biting, he was dragged back through the doors. His bound arms screamed for relief beneath his torso, and on all sides the tentacles slithered and spread.

They grasped and prodded and pinned him onto the floor. Unable to rise or use his hands to resist, he was stuck. Shuddering, he tried to sob, but even that right was taken from him by the appendage pressing into his throat. 

The darkness returned. It bled from every corner of the room until it consumed him in hopelessness, rage, and despair. Everything, even his breath, slipped away as he struggled to lift his weight off his arms by arching his back from the black stone floor.

The man that approached now had stripped himself of Anduin’s visage. At least there was that, though it felt like no mercy at all when the shadow opened his wide mouth to whisper, “Poor dragon prince, without a soul in the world who cares. If I take you now, no one will miss you: not the king, not your agents, and not your brother. You know this, so why do you resist?”

‘For Azeroth,’ he wanted to argue. The tentacle in his mouth kept his tongue pressed down, but even though the words hadn’t left his lips it seemed the old god had understood. 

“For Azeroth,” it murmured, then knelt beside him. Finally, the tentacle in his mouth withdrew, letting him suck in a much-needed breath. He knew he should take this opportunity to rise, but when N’Zoth pressed a hand to his chest any strength he had left deteriorated. 

The god leaned in and murmured Wrathion’s name against his ear. His breath felt warm—enticing, even—as it rustled through his curls. It was as if the shadows themselves slipped over him, but instead of gripping his shoulders this time, they soothed him.

He turned his head slightly, hoping to look him in the eyes, but found nothing, not even the crimson halo of Wrathion's gaze, could reveal the Master’s visage. Rather than seeing him, though, the dragon felt him down to the core of his being. 

“You know,” N’Zoth nipped gently at the shell of his ear. The hand that had been on Wrathion’s chest now slipped to his waist, tracing the gentle curve before coming to rest on his hip. He trembled, but it didn’t seem to be from fear. 

“If she wakes up, everyone you love, everything that has ever mattered to you, will die.”

Wrathion knew. Of course, he knew. He had known from the moment he hatched, but feeling it murmured against his skin still made his heart clench and plummet. 

The old god’s hand traveled across his abdomen, taking in every inch of skin. He was exposed now. His entire body was laid bare before the figure’s wandering fingertips. Wrathion’s muscles clenched as he held his breath; a voice in his head begged and pleaded with him not to spread his legs. 

The god’s fingertips seemed to tear him in two, one half desperate to be released and the other desperate to find relief. Rocking his hips, he knocked the back of his head against the floor. As his heels dug into the stone, he felt N’Zoth whisper, soft and sweet, “Is that what you want, hm? The sun to never shine on Anduin’s face again, your friends and enemies alike to be snatched away in a single moment? Or will you let me save them for you, Wrathion?”

N’Zoth paused for a moment, though it seemed to stretch on for eons. The quiver that had started in the depths of Wrathion’s abdomen now reached his inner thighs. It was a lie, but it sparked something inside of him. It called forth warmth and hope like he hadn’t known for years. 

The figure finally bowed forward and nuzzled against his cheek. The unstable edges of his silhouette seemed to come back into focus, and the hair that caressed Wrathion’s cheeks was soft and familiar.

He wanted to reach up and touch it, but he couldn’t, not with his hands pinned behind his back. He had to content himself with leaning his head against it and breathing in the aroma of plum blossoms under a gold-lit sky. 

The lips that pressed against Wrathion’s were warm, but when they parted, they seemed to drag him down into the darkness. He floated, then fell.

And after that, he jolted awake.

Dawn had just started to cast its rays through the mouth of the cave. It fell on his cheeks, and when he reached up to touch them, he found them sticky with sweat and tears. His curls clung to his forehead, and when he tried to push himself up to sitting he realized his face wasn’t the only place he felt wet. 

Cursing and shaking his head, he fumbled around in the shadows for his backpack. N’Zoth’s promise still lingered like the kiss on his lips, but he knew he had to chase it away. He bit down and flicked out his tongue, but to no avail. It was only after spilling the contents of his bag in the dirt that he finally found what he was looking for. 

His clawed hand closed around a small vial, and he popped it open, taking a swig of it before tucking the rest away. Swallowing and taking a few deep breaths, he willed the world to start making sense again.

As he waited, his hand reached into the pile of his belongings and found something else: a thick envelope with a seal still dangling from its open flap. Bringing it to his lips, he kissed it gently, then pressed it against his wet cheek.

Huddled on the floor and waiting for the darkness to fade into the walls of the cave, he cradled Anduin’s invitation to Stormwind and drew in a shaky breath.


	17. Boot Worship (Sylvanas/Nathanos)

Nathanos waited until he heard Eitrigg’s heavy footfalls disappear out the door behind him, and then, when he was certain they were alone, he approached the throne. The orcs and sin’dorei who occupied Grommash Hold during the day might need their rest, but for him and his queen, there were far better ways to pass the nighttime hours.

He knelt in the center of the room, head bowed and waiting. She took her time, clicking her nails against the iron arm of her chair and letting its ‘tcks’ count the moments until she would acknowledge him. 

Finally, he heard her murmur in a voice low and sweet: “My champion, how have you come to serve the Banshee Queen? Show me what you can do for me.”

Nathanos nodded and swallowed. If his heart had still beaten, it might have clenched in his chest. He dimly recalled a time when they were still alive, when she had praised his skill with a bow. Her rare compliments had always stayed with him, making his heart throb and his cock twitch against the front of his leather breeches. 

Even now, with a body slow to react as it used to, the memory kindled a kind of spark within him. He rose and crossed the floor towards the throne, maintaining a submissive bow that deepened when he approached the stairs.

He could feel her eyes upon him, and he reveled in it. Whether she was scolding or praising his loyalty, she always had a way of searching him down to his core. He lingered. She took her time. Finally, the soft ‘clnk’ of her armor knocking together broke the silence. Nathanos slowly lifted his gaze to watch her slide down into the throne with her hands gripping the armrests on either side of her hips.

She had to stretch out her arms to reach, but rather than getting lost in a frame built with an orc in mind, she seemed to commandeer it. The corners of her lips twitched into a confident smirk and she extended one leg with her toes pointed towards him.

Knowing what she expected of him, and eager as ever to please, Nathanos scooted onto his knees and crawled up the first two stairs, only stopping then the tip of her boot slid against his cheek. 

The metal was cold, but he hardly noticed; it was no contrast to his own cool skin. He simply leaned into it, letting his queen ruffle his beard with the tip of her toes. Although the sensation wasn’t what it had once been, it stimulated something in him nonetheless: pleasure, maybe, a satisfaction he only found in her service, and the contentment of submitting to the mistress he’d had in life and death. 

Closing his eyes, he let her run the sole of her boot along his face. When he opened them again, he found her gaze piecing through the waning orange light of the braziers that framed her throne. 

He himself remained in her shadow. He could feel it spilling across his face when she withdrew her boot for a moment to let him speak. Looking up, and then lowering his gaze, he whispered, “My queen, may I…?”

“May you _what_, champion?” She all but purred in return. 

“May I—” His voice strained as he said it. He coughed, then began again, “May I lick your boot?”

This seemed to please her. He caught her lips parting, a row of sharp teeth flashing between them, and the faintest hint of a laugh rising to the tip of her tongue. She nodded, her white hair swaying and her red eyes flashing beneath long brows. “Of course, Nathanos. Show me how eager you are to serve.”

“Yes, my queen,” he didn't hesitate to nod. Reaching out, he cupped her booted foot in his white palms before sliding his fingers back to cradle the heel. Only then did he stop and look back up at her. She nodded once more, and with that he leaned forward. 

First, he nuzzled the tip of his nose over the boot’s pointed end, then let the cool metal graze his mustache. Gazing up Sylvanas’ leg, he flicked out his tongue and ran it over the edge where his nose had previously been. Her gaze remained steady, appraising. The only hint of her own enjoyment came when she withdrew one hand from the armrest and pressed it, instead, between her legs. 

Groaning under his breath, Nathanos tightened his grip on her heel and guided her boot to press firm against his face. He traced him tongue along the instep now, then back up to catch her steel-guarded toes between his lips.

He swallowed and sucked, taking her small foot into his mouth down to the arch, before withdrawing to gaze back up at her. There was a certain coolness and metallic tang that lingered on his tongue, but he thought very little about it.

He was too caught up in watching his queen: the way she arched her back and ran the tips of her fingers under the mail guard between her legs. His own pants, too, were starting to feel too tight, however distantly he processed the ache. But he kept his focus on her, his mistress and queen. 

Sucking again, he murmured, and brushed his knuckles gently up to her calf. Turning his wrist, he pressed his palm under her knee, making no move to remove the boot but instead to stroke it from top to sole. Just when he found a rhythm with his sucks, however, she started to take over, rolling her ankle and then pressing her foot firmer between his lips. 

That pressure and loss of control, he knew, was what he craved most of all. He stared up into her sharp red eyes for a moment, and then let his own gaze lower in total submission. She thrust into him, and he opened to accommodate her. His hands gently cupped her heel, and he yielded, as always, to the Dark Lady’s whims.


	18. Shotgunning (Thrall/Garrosh)

Thrall drew in a breath, letting his eyes slide closed and willing himself to relax. In front of him, he heard the bonfire crackle, its smoke mingling with the cloud that already surrounded him and the heat of the Mag'har leaning next to him.

Garadar had finally fallen silent. He and Garrosh were the only ones still lingering outside as the shadows started to close in. First, they had talked, then whispered, and now they had lapsed into a surprisingly comfortable silence. Thrall inhaled, and the earthy scent of herbs filled his lungs. He could feel it ebbing away at his consciousness, luring him into a comfortable haze. 

He smiled. It wasn’t until he felt the bench shift that he realized Garrosh was leaning closer. 

Turning, he opened his mouth to ask if he was leaving. Any question he had started to form died, however, when Garrosh brushed their bottom lips together and exhaled a mouthful of smoke.

It wasn’t a kiss—not really—but it felt like one. Their tusks bumped, and, for a moment, Thrall forgot to breathe. When he finally gasped and sucked down air it came with a rush of smoke, of Garrosh’s scent, and a keen awareness of his heat as he leaned over Thrall’s body. 

The Warchief’s face, too, grew hot, but it had very little to do with the temperature. Garrosh’s gold eyes searched him in the darkness, and when he nodded, the Mag’har pressed a hand to his chest. 

It wasn’t a forceful gesture, but it was strong and determined. Thrall yielded to it, leaning the back of his head against the clay wall and letting his gaze stray to a trail of magenta arching across the sky. It was the only thing that could distract him from the tremble that passed through him when Garrosh knelt between his legs, or the knowledge, vivid even through his high, that he was about to submit to Grom’s son. 

He exhaled. Garrosh’s fingers unlatched the buckle holding his codpiece in place, then swung it open to expose his underclothing to the night air. His cock, already half-hard, twitched when Garrosh unbuttoned the garment to release it and swelled as his fingertips brushed over his head and his hand wrapped around its base. 

Thrall couldn’t bring himself to look down. Biting his upper lip, he tried, and failed, to hold back a moan. He could feel Garrosh’s gaze upon him and it only made him ache even more. Something about being laid bare before the larger orc made his mouth go dry and his hand shake as he brought it to gently rest against Garrosh’s ponytail. 

He wasn’t trying to urge him, but Garrosh was still quick to comply. Letting out a low growl of approval, the Mag’har leaned in and wrapped his lips around the head of his cock, then slid down until his tusks pressed against Thrall’s thighs. 

Thrall gasped, the back of his head knocking against the wall and his free hand clenching the side of the bench for support. The heat and wetness of Garrosh’s mouth overwhelmed him. He felt his breath ruffling through the hair at the base of his shaft and had to curl his toes in his boots to keep his hips from rocking into it. 

With every suck, it became harder for Thrall to think. The haze that washed over him now, however, had nothing to do with the smoke.

His booted heels knocked against the bench beneath him. His nails dug into the wood, and he moaned under his breath a short “_Hellscream_” before Garrosh swallowed and even stole that word from his lips. 

He shuddered as the orc’s throat spasmed slightly around his head. While dimly he wondered if he should stop him, or, at least, tug back on his ponytail and tell him he didn’t have to do that, the unfamiliar feeling got the best of him. He sighed, and something clenched beneath the base of his cock. His balls tightened. All at once, he found himself crying out, gritting his teeth, the details of the world around him blurring together until all he knew was the heat and tightness of Garrosh’s throat. 

It was as if the Mag’har was dragging him towards his release. When he slid back, it was with a firm suck that drew out all the tension and heat that had built between the Warchief’s legs. Thrall came in a thick spurt into his heat, and then ecstasy of relief washed over him. He didn’t feel or see Garrosh moving until their lips pressed firmly together.

Their tusks knocked together, but Garrosh tilted his head to the side until they fit and he could part his lips. Breathing in, Thrall realized, dimly, that he was smelling himself on him and tasting the saltiness of his own release. His cheeks darkened. He gasped.

Their tongues slid against one another, and his cum dribbled onto his lower lip then down into his beard.


	19. Double Penetration (Anduin/Wrathion/Flynn)

When the king had first invited him up to the royal chamber, Flynn had been convinced he was dreaming. However, when the door had swung open to reveal a black dragon sitting cross-legged on the bed and Anduin himself donning nothing but a thin blue robe, he had finally had to face the truth: no amount of rum or desperation could have inspired his mind to create something quite like this. 

‘No,’ he reminded himself as he grasped either side of the king’s hips and sank into his heat, ‘This…this is definitely happened, and for some reason I, of all people, have been chosen to take part in it.’ 

He didn’t get it, but he didn’t ask questions, either. With the King of Stormwind bent over and spread for him, he doubted he’d be able to find his voice, anyway. And that…wasn’t even the half of it.

Looking past Anduin’s messy blond ponytail, he found a pair of crimson eyes gazing back at him. Wrathion’s slit pupils widened, and his nails dug into Anduin’s shoulders as Flynn’s own thrust pushed the king inside. 

Not knowing where else to put his hand, the Kul Tiran pressed it into the blue silk pillow beside Wrathion’s hair. He half expected the dragon to turn and bite him, but thankfully he seemed all too occupied with wrapping his legs around Anduin's thighs and digging his long-nailed toes into the back of Flynn’s calves. 

Flynn didn’t complain. He just pressed his nose to the nape of Anduin’s neck, hesitating a moment before nuzzling him with his mustache. His hands shook as he tried to grip the king’s hips, fighting to remind himself not to squeeze too hard. The bed trembled. Wrathion threw back his head and cried out, nails digging into Anduin's skin and hair tickling Flynn’s wrist as he arched his back. 

They moved together: Flynn buried in Anduin, and Anduin thrusting into Wrathion’s wetness, a pile of limbs and gasps only the royal bed could accommodate.

Flynn could feel a blush overtaking Anduin’s face and hear the dragon murmuring and praising him with his hand cupped to his cheek. He couldn’t make out what they were saying over the squeak of the mattress and his own pulse rushing in his ears, but he didn’t need to. He could tell they were sighing into a desperate kiss, just as they’d done when they had knelt together between Flynn’s legs and taken turns licking and sucking his cock. 

Just like then, he could feel the difference in them. Just as Anduin had blushed and carefully wrapped his lips around his head with his fingers cupped loosely around his base, now he was trying to hide his face every time Flynn sank into him. Wrathion had all but devoured him with a probing tongue that traced from his slit to his balls and back, and now that same tongue was pressing, hungry, into Anduin’s mouth. 

The king clenched around Flynn’s shaft and the dragon reached around to give Flynn’s hair a tug. Before he knew it, his face was buried against Anduin’s neck and Wrathion was wrapping his legs around both of their waists.

The dragon’s heels dug into the small of his back. He kissed him over Anduin’s shoulder and murmured, in a voice thick with lust, “Mmh, Flynn Fairwind?”

“Yes?” He managed. He was certain he could taste the king on Wrathion’s tongue. Trying to steady himself, he clenched the sheets. Wrathion chuckled and caught his lower lip in a gentle nip. 

“His Majesty would like to share me with you. Being inside the king is certainly one thing—” As if to make his point, Wrathion rocked up. Anduin gasped. Flynn had to fight to catch his breath at the sudden change in pressure. “But being inside a black dragon is another. Will you take me?”

“I—” Flynn’s mouth went slack, but he managed to nod. It seemed to be all the confirmation the two young men needed, because before he could process what was happening Wrathion had released his hold on his hair and Anduin was turning over. 

His cock slid out of the king. He felt bereft of his heat, throbbing and slick as he was, but luckily, he didn’t have to wait too long. All at once, Anduin’s head hit the pillow beside him. His messy blond hair spread out across the blue fabric. Wrathion moved to straddle his hips, and then sank down until the king’s cock disappeared into his slit. 

The dragon leaned forward to kiss the king’s cheek, then to let their foreheads rest gently together. Flynn swallowed and moved behind him. With Wrathion's cheeks spread like this, he could clearly see Anduin pressed up in one hole while the other remained unoccupied. 

The Kul Tiran had to force himself to breathe. His hands shook as he moved to kneel behind Wrathion—Deathwing’s son himself! — but his cock ached and pleaded with him to press on. Sliding one hand up the dragon’s waist, the other wrapped around the base of his cock and guided his head to Wrathion’s hole.

Just as he’d done with Anduin, he leaned forward, fighting not to move too quickly when the tight ring started to yield. The dragon was hotter than Anduin had been, however, and when he started to sink in, he realized he could feel the king’s shaft pressing up against him, too, through Wrathion’s thin inner wall.

“Oh, gods,” he hadn’t realized he’d gasped until the words tumbled from his lips. This time it was Anduin’s hand reaching around to slide up into his hair. His fingers trembled, wet and clumsy against Flynn’s cheek. Flynn leaned into his touch, then kissed a scar on Wrathion’s back just above the purple neckline of his tank top. 

He thrust in. The king’s cock throbbed against his inside of the dragon, and when their balls brushed, he found Anduin’s slick with Wrathion’s wetness. After a few shaky breaths and clumsy attempts to hold on to them both, Flynn finally found a grip that could keep the two young men steady beneath him. 

Flynn rolled his hips. Anduin cried out and dug his toes into the mattress behind him. Between them, Wrathion gasped and shuddered, kissing, then biting the young king’s neck to muffle his cries. 

The dragon’s body was hot and impossibly tight, and with every rock and thrust he seemed to tense even more. Emboldened by his whimpers, Flynn tucked his hair to the side and kissed him just beneath his earlobe. His gold earring slid against Flynn’s sweat-drenched cheek, and when he arched his back it was to thrust down on both king and pirate at once. 

Through the ache of his cock and the heat of the dragon’s body, Flynn had to struggle to keep his wits.

What he did know, however, was that nobody, not even old Klause, was going to believe him when he got home. ‘Ah, well,’ he thought as he grinned against Wrathion’s neck and pressed his palm against Anduin’s slender waist. He had learned long ago that sometimes the truest stories turn out to be the strangest.


	20. Masturbation (Anduin)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied Wranduin and one-sided, unfulfilled Garrosh/Anduin.

Anduin rested his head against his headboard, his blond hair spilling down his left shoulder and his nightshirt slightly open. After a few deep breaths, he trailed the tips of his fingers along his collarbone. His skin was flush and sticky with sweat. The midsummer heat, it seemed, had gotten the better of him. 

But after another inhale and a gentle brush of his nipple through the linen garment, he started to distract his mind from any lingering discomfort. 

Sliding closed his eyes, he shuddered and took in the slight jolt that passed through him as he teased the sensitive nub. After a few flicks, he gave in and slid his hand under the fabric. His palm brushed over a soft tuft of hair: hair that had just started to spread down to his belly button and across the slight arc of his pecs. 

He smiled to himself, recalling how smooth the hair on Wrathion’s abdomen had felt that night back at the Tavern. He hadn’t seen it beneath the sheets, but he had run his fingertips through it, earning a gasp that had disappeared into their kiss. 

Wrathion had touched him that night, too. His grip around Anduin’s cock had been clumsy but eager. He had nipped at the nape of the human’s neck with his sharp teeth before flicking the tip of his tongue over Anduin’s nipple—

“Ah!” The king gasped. His eyes snapped open and his gaze strayed to the royal blue canopy above his head. Biting his lip and praying the guards outside his room didn’t hear, he removed his hand from his shirt and slid down until the back of his head met the pillow. 

From this angle, it was easier to get under the hem of his shirt. He pushed it up, then slid his fingers along his abdominal muscles. Arching his back into his own touch, he trembled, and savored it. His eyes slid closed, and his free hand reached down to undo the laces holding his sleep pants in place.

His thumb grazed along the slight bulge that had already started to grow. Unable to help himself, he teased it, gasping and rocking his hips up into that much-needed touch. 

His duties and meetings finally pushed from his mind, he settled in and eased his cock from his open pants. In the heat of his room he could already smell the faint musk of his arousal. Swallowing, he wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock, and let his mind wander once more to that night at the Tavern. 

Wrathion’s eyes had glowed, their crimson light spreading out from under the covers when he had peeked up to gain Anduin’s approval. Anduin had nodded, and before he had readied himself, there had been a tongue, long and wet, swirling around his head and teasing him down to his sac…

Again, Anduin gasped and threw back his head. The pad of his thumb traced over his head, and he could almost pretend it was the dragon’s tongue. His palm soon replaced it, however, cupping over his tip and then sliding down, his grip tighter and his stroke surer than Wrathion’s had ever been. 

Moaning, he turned his head and muffled the sound in his pillow. After a few strokes, he quickened his pace, taking in the tightness and pressure that knew just how and where to touch. The side of his hand pressed into his hair before working back up to the tip. He smeared a few drops of pre that had started to leak from his slit, and then slid his hand back down to his base. The wetness that lingered on the pad of his thumb made him tremble, and his cock twitched in his grasp. 

His hips arched from the bed, and he relished in it: in the tightness starting to build and the promise of his release. Caught up in the feeling, he let his thoughts wander once more, to a different time, a different place, leaning forward with metal bars pressing against his shoulders…

Garrosh’s eyes had flashed, and his hand had tightened—so impossibly tight—around Anduin’s slender wrist. Anduin’s blood had rushed in his ear. His heart had nearly beaten itself to death, and then everything had gone quiet—so quiet, like the world itself had disappeared beyond the bars of that jail cell.

The orc’s palm, calloused and unyielded, had burned against his skin. His sharp teeth had flashed as he shouted, then snarled, then frowned with Anduin’s hand still caught between his thick fingers—

Anduin gasped and threw back his head. His own hand around his cock tightened. Though he was older now and had practice holding a blade, his fingers still felt slender and soft against memories of Garrosh’s grip. He wondered how small he would have felt in his palm, how scared and desperate he would have been leaking between his fingers.

A shudder overcame him. His free hand gripped the sheets beneath him, crumbling their softness between sweaty fingers. The throb and ache of his cock consumed him, until his heart pounded and a cry tumbled from his parted lips. 

“Garrosh-!” He whimpered, forgetting to care who heard. The word seemed to linger and shake him down to his core. The adrenaline that raced through his veins ripped the air from his lungs. Hair clinging to his brow and shirt sticking to his flushed skin, he jolted and thrust up into his shaking hand. 

He jerked until his forearm started to ache. His strokes got more erratic with every throb of his cock. Soon his head was knocking against his thumb, leaking its pre down the side of his curled fingers. 

Something clenched. He moaned. His head hit the pillow with a soft ‘thud’ while his back arched off the mattress. The colors of the room, the heat of the night, the burning he’d seen in Garrosh’s flashing gold eyes, all of it melted together until he was gasping and drowning in it.

His arm seemed overcome by a power beyond itself. The way it jerked and tightened drew everything together. The tension and heat building beneath the base of his shaft had become his master now, and he, desperate as he'd become, now gave himself over to it.

Squeezing closed his eyes, he thrust up. His heels dug into the mattress, and a whine fell from his lips. All at once, the tightness and heat unfurled, and he came in thick spurts between his fingers. His cum splattered and rolled down his wrist, but he barely felt it, caught up as he was in the burning, ecstasy, and relief washing over his body in waves.

His heart still pounded loud in his chest and he had to struggle to breathe. He quivered, though if it was relief or unbridled fear that left his knees shaking he couldn’t be sure. He just moaned, curling his toes in the sheets and waiting, chest heaving and skin slick with his sweat and cum, for the world around him to come back into focus.


	21. Edging (Stellagosa/Valtrois)

The corners of Valtrois’ lips twitched into a smirk when she met the dragon’s gaze. With her pale legs spread and her soft blue hair pressed up against the pillow, Stellagosa looked surprisingly vulnerable. Gone was the knowing glint in her eyes when she pointed out some Nightborne error. All of that had been discarded with her robes at the edge of the bed, and now her moans—desperate and ragged—betrayed her raw _need_ for the elf she so often teased.

Her toes curled and dug into the purple duvet. The glow of a blue lantern floating beside her spilled out over her breasts and caught the faint sheen of sweat that now clung to her ivory skin. But that, Valtrois noted with an appraising look, wasn’t the only evidence of her arousal. 

There was also a certain wetness caught in the soft blue hair around her slit, and a faint shimmer on her flushed lips. Arching her brows ever-so-slightly, Valtrois leaned forward and trailed the tip of her finger between them. She murmured, smearing her juices up to her swollen clit.

It felt firmer than it had when Valtrois had rubbed it through her robes while they stood together in the Observatory, and she gasped louder than when Valtrois had pressed her thigh firmly between her legs as they kissed against a nearby tree. Laid bare as she was now, it was easy to see the tremor that overtook her, the way she twitched every time Valtrois flicked the tip. 

The Nightborne reveled in it. She pursed her lips, not caring how smug she looked. Any will to keep up appearances had left Stellagosa, so she saw no need to conceal her own feelings, either. 

She just kept teasing, running her short nails through the dragon’s blue hair and then tracing them along her clit’s hood. She scooted up to recline beside her, pressing her cheek to her neck and feeling the breath that caught in her throat.

Valtrois nipped at her skin, and Stellagosa swallowed. Leaving her cunt for a moment, the elf slid her wet fingers up her abdomen and then to the swell of her breast. She felt the dragon’s chest rise, her back arching under her touch even as she let out a hiss on the heels of her gasp. 

“You’re teasing,” she pointed out, her voice quivering slightly when she said it. Rather than deny it, Valtrois propped herself up to stare into her blue eyes. The dragon scowled, but the look was cut short when the elf traced the tip of her thumb over her flushed nipple. Her mouth fell open, and she squeezed closed her eyes, pressing the back of her head into the pillow. 

“Valtrois,” she whispered again, indignant but breathy, “Honestly. Please.”

“Please what?” The elf finally murmured. Her fingers slid back down to her belly button, then to the soft nest of blue hair below. She didn’t give the dragon what she wanted—not yet—and she could feel her dissatisfaction in the way she trembled and squirmed her hips.

She didn’t give in, simply toying with her wet hair and waiting. She needed to hear the dragon say it. 

“Please finish me,” Stellagosa whispered as she dug her heel into the mattress, and then, as if trying one final quip, added, even quieter, “If you can.”

Valtrois’ eyes narrowed, and she bit down on the curve of her shoulder. Whether it was meant as a challenge or not, the Nightborne took it as one. Plunging two fingers into the wetness below, she caught her clit between them and rubbed.

The dragon all but shuddered and tried to roll up her hips to meet that touch, but the larger woman used her forearm to keep her down. She stroked once, then again, then, with a few flicks of her thumb over the swollen tip, watched her lose her footing and splay her legs outward.

Stellagosa opened herself to Valtrois’ touch and to the cool air of the garden around them. The Nightborne seized upon her. After rubbing her clit, she moved down her lips and then pressed her fingers into her hole. She was already open and wet, letting the elf sink into her and curl up to tease her inside.

This earned another gasp and a whimper that Valtrois felt escape against her cheek. Nuzzling and kissing her earlobe, the elf murmured, emboldened by the dragon’s display, “Who knew you’d be tamed so easily, or how beautiful you’d look?”

Stellagosa hissed and clutched at the duvet beneath her hips. She turned her head, and her blue waves tumbled across Valtrois’ face. It seemed like she might have something to say, but when the elf withdrew from slit to instead smear her juices down to the tight hole below, her comeback became a gasp, and her gasp a hungry kiss.

She mouthed another “please” and fell back against the pillow. Valtrois took the opportunity to get on top of her, gazing into her soft blue eyes. 

“What was that?” She prompted again, teasing but firm. Her hand stilled against the dragon’s cunt. 

“I—”

Valtrois decided not to let her finish. She brushed her nail over her clit, earning a twitch that seemed to shake the dragon from her toes to her hair. After that, the elf paused again, smiling and arcing her long brows, “I could go get a crystal from inside, leave you here to wait for a bit.”

Stellagosa’s lips pursed, brows knitting together as she shook her head. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. Her body told its story: from the sweat and flush on her cheeks to the way her breasts rose and fell with every jagged breath. She was desperate, probably aching. Her nerves were alight, and all she could do was dig her nails into the mattress and gaze up into Valtrois’ face. 

Shifting slightly and pressing her thighs together to relieve some of the ache between her own legs, Valtrois inhaled. Her thumb circled Stellagosa’s clit in a single, slow motion before pausing again to watch her. It clearly wasn't what the dragon wanted, but it still made her tremble and moan. The elf paused again, and, with a smirk and a soft exhale, leaned down to chastely kiss the tip of her nose.


	22. Watersports (Lor'themar/Genn)

Lor’themar pursed his lips, knowing he must look rather undignified kneeling on the ocean’s rocky floor. He hadn’t intended to submit to Genn Greymane, but his grip on his hair had been swift and his stance determined.

He had pushed, and Lor’themar’s knees had hit the sand. The elf's own arousal had gotten the better of him, and he had yielded, letting the irritating ache of his cock take control. Now he was trapped. The only thing left for him to do was look up and glare at the human-turned-worgen and the paw now clutching his shoulder. 

“Do we have to do it like this?” The Regent Lord spat, but his voice lacked conviction. 

Genn’s maw parted to reveal a row of sharp teeth. He didn’t rise to the blood elf’s complaints, instead reaching down and unlatching his belt. It fell open, clanging as it swung free. Soon he had unbuttoned his trousers, as well, and removed a thick, pink cock like nothing Lor’themar had ever seen.

The elf wanted to shake his head. All he managed to do instead was wrinkle his nose and curse his own cock for twitching at the sight. He was as intrigued as he was disgusted, and after the weeks he had spent camping with barely a moment alone the former, unfortunately, won out. 

Still chastising himself for agreeing to this, he wrapped his fingers around the base. As he slid his palm up the shaft, he took in the way it seemed to thicken, then taper off at the tip. The knot seemed to swell with every stroke, and he stared at it in spite of himself.

Above him, he heard the worgen groan, and soon the paw on his shoulder returned to his high ponytail. 

“No,” he warned, managing to pull his gaze away from Genn’s cock to stare up into his glowing eyes. Pursing his lips, the sin’dorei shook his head, the smaller tufts of hair on either side of his face swaying against his cheeks, “Absolutely not.” 

Genn didn’t remove his hand, but he didn’t push harder, either. Even as his jaw clenched and a low, inhuman growl escaped him, he let Lor’themar continue the ministrations on his own terms. 

Satisfied that he had regained control—at least for now—Lor’themar returned to stroking Genn's cock, squeezing and rubbing his shaft, then cupping his hand over the pointed head. 

His free hand slid into the slit of his tunic, pushing the red and gold fabric aside to get at the front of his pants. His cock already tented the leather garment, and when he grazed his fingers over it to undo the laces he had to tense and grit his teeth to keep from quivering. 

There were some things he refused to let the worgen see. Even while his right hand worked in careful strokes up and down Genn’s erection, his left hand and the tunic still hanging between his legs kept him mostly concealed. 

The elf allowed himself one careful stroke. The thumb on his other hand traced Genn’s slit and smeared the pre-cum that had formed there. Caught up in his own relief, Lor’themar failed to notice at first that the worgen’s knot was getting too large for him to accommodate. Soon, however, he had to strain his fingers to keep his grip.

Reluctantly, and with a soft groan he hoped Genn wouldn’t notice, he abandoned himself to wrap both hands around the Gilnean king’s shaft instead. 

Now he was certain he looked undignified. Pumping both arms in time, he felt heat start to rise to his cheeks. It was unexpected and unjustified in the damp chill that surrounded him. At least the shadows around him were deepening as the sun started to sink out of view beyond the waves. If nothing else, at least he could take solace in that.

Breathing in, the sin’dorei once again found his pace. His fingers laced together around the knot, and he pulled back, then leaned forward until his fingers pressed into the worgen’s fur. The strange cock throbbed under his touch, and he could smell a faint musk, feel his head starting to leak, and then—

All at once, he felt Genn’s balls tighten, and then something thick and hot splattered across the Regent Lord’s face. He opened his mouth to protest, but that proved to be a mistake. The second spurt crossed his parted lips and dripped down onto his beard. He sputtered, but he was too surprised and flustered to say much more.

He just glared and huffed and blushed when the worgen finally looked down and removed his paw from the back of his head. 

Lor’themar’s own cock ached, but he remained frozen in place. The salty taste of Genn’s cum lingered on the tip of his tongue even after he clenched his jaw and reluctantly swallowed. There was a pause, a moment filled with soft panting from the Gilnean and Lor’themar’s own disapproving—or maybe flustered—reticence. 

They waited for a moment, and Lor’themar thought the worgen had had his fill. But then Genn wrapped his hand around the base of his still-swollen cock and muttered “hold still,” and once again the sin’dorei couldn’t (or, perhaps wouldn’t, but he was loath to admit it) pull back.

Lor’themar squeezed closed his eye just as something warmer and decidedly wetter than cum splashed across his face. It dribbled down his beard, then onto his tunic, soaking him down to the skin. 

He pressed his lips into a line, but the Genn still managed to get them wet. The worgen was marking him, he realized, and while it should have enraged him, it only made his cock throb against his tunic and into the small puddle that had formed there between his thighs. 

Shaking and unable to care any longer, the elf shoved his hand into the slit and once again found his cock. It throbbed into his touch and a soft gasp escaped him. Keeping his eye closed, refusing to look back up at the worgen and the knotted cock still inches from his face, he slid his palm up his shaft and rubbed his head against his now-soaked garment.


	23. Collaring (Rommath/Aethas)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aethas is trans here!

The Archmage looked up from the books stacked in front of him when he heard his door creak open. Nudging them to the side, he waved his hand out into the shadows, sparking the other lamps hanging around the room. He wasn’t particularly alarmed by the intrusion—after all, he knew who had the keys to enter his study—but he had to make sure. 

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long. His suspicions were confirmed when light flooded the space and revealed a familiar pair of green eyes gazing towards him above the rim of a high, red collar. 

Aethas’ expression softened, and he rose, bowing his head, “Grand Magister.”

As always, Rommath’s voice was sharp and curt, a contrast to the Archmage’s cordial murmur. “Aethas,” he nodded, and then took a few steps forward, only stopping when they stood face-to-face.

Feeling heat start to rise to his cheeks, Aethas swallowed and glanced just to the left of the Grand Magister’s black hair. He often felt like this, standing so close to the other mage. It was hard not to waver slightly under his piercing stare. 

After a few seconds and another inhale, however, Aethas managed to begin again, “What brings you to Dalaran, Grand Magister? Isn’t it a bit late for research?”

Rommath certainly heard him, but he made no move to acknowledge the question. Instead, he stood up straighter and reached out to touch Aethas’ hair. Trailing his fingers along his hot cheeks, he studied him, and then tucked a few strands behind his ear. The Archmage suddenly felt exposed, the side of his neck laid bare to Rommath’s eyes and the cool nighttime air, and he realized, at once, why the other mage had surprised him like this.

He swallowed, and when he did, the strap of leather around his neck rose, then fell. He could feel the gold ring jingling against his throat and a slight scratch when the strap rubbed against his collarbone. 

The item he had worn for days no longer felt like another piece of clothing, as it had come to feel while he went about his busy daily routine. No, under Rommath’s gaze it seemed new again, especially when the Grand Magister touched it and murmured under his breath: “Good. You’re still wearing it.”

It was rare for Rommath to praise him. Aethas flushed even brighter. His knees quivered slightly as he felt a jolt between his legs. He nodded, perhaps a bit too quickly, and replied, “Of course, Grand Magister.” He forced himself to swallow, keenly aware of the way Rommath’s fingers brushed against his skin as they traced along the top of the collar.

He expected Rommath to ask if anyone had noticed and inquired about its source and meaning, or perhaps even to drill him on the specifics: Did you wear it to the bath? Did you keep it on you in bed like I told you to do? But to his surprise, Rommath just lingered in silence, toying with it, knitting his brows together in thought.

Somehow the quiet made Aethas feel even more flustered. His breath caught in his throat and he squeezed closed his eyes when Rommath hooked his finger through the ring and gave it a slight tug. He bowed forward. The Grand Magister cleared his throat, and then broke the silence with a cool, but firm, command: “Open your eyes.”

Aethas tensed again but did as he was told, forcing his eyes back open. When he looked into Rommath’s face now, he found him smirking, the corners of his lips barely visible behind the rim of his coat. Other than that, his expression remained unchanged. He gave Aethas another tug, compelling him to step forward.

Now they stood nearly chest-to-chest. The Grand Magister’s heat and the steady rhythm of his breath seemed to consume him. Knowing Rommath could likely feel his own racing heart just as clearly made him want to stumble away and frantically regain his composure.

He didn't. Instead, he submitted, just as he had always done, to the finger looped through his collar and the Grand Magister’s commands murmured inches from his lips: 

“Tilt back your head.”

Aethas complied. His hair slid down his back as he did so. He couldn’t see what the Grand Magister was doing, but he could hear him rustling in his clothes, then feel his fingers as they returned to his throat to latch something cold and heavy onto the strap around his neck.

When Rommath finally let him face forward again, any questions he might have had were answered. The new charm weighed on him, knocking against his collar and chilling his sensitive skin. 

It was a lock, and a large one at that. The blood drained from Aethas’ cheeks. His knees buckled slightly, and between his legs he noticed a certain wetness that had started to form in his underclothes. As uncomfortable as he was, being claimed like this did things to him he couldn’t express.

He lowered his gaze and smiled—faint and awkward—as he felt Rommath’s gaze appraising the new addition. Finally, he nodded, and Aethas’ smile brightened. 

If the Grand Magister was happy, then so was he. More than ever, he felt ready to serve.


	24. Begging (Eitrigg/Tirion)

Tirion exhaled and tried to relax. With the tree trunk pressed between his shoulders and the dying embers of their fire giving way to the chilly Lordaeron night, however, it proved easier said than done. He pulled his threadbare wool blanket around himself. Closing his eyes, he turned his attention to his breath, just as he had been taught to do during his time at Light’s Hope Chapel. Unfortunately, for the exile even that proved fruitless. 

Turning to his left, he gave in and leaned against the sturdy, warm arm of the orc seated next to him. All his attempts to maintain the line between them were starting to crumble, and he was losing control. The way the orc shifted to accommodate him, easing his head onto his shoulder and pressing his hand against his waist should have unsettled Tirion all the more, but he couldn’t make his pulse quicken or his jaw clench in protest. 

After everything that had occurred—his trial, his departure from Karanda and Taelan, his choice to slay Alliance soldiers—he couldn’t help but cling to his warmth, no matter how forbidden it might be. 

He sighed. The two men sat for a time in silence with Eitrigg’s hand on Tirion’s waist and Tirion’s cheek pressed against his chest. His frayed blanket pooled in a heap in their laps; the orc’s arms offered more heat than even the waning fire. 

He breathed in and tasted the faint musk of smoke and the Orcish scent that had come to comfort him. When he exhaled, it was to the rise and fall of Eitrigg’s chest, his hair tickling his face and his skin smooth against his parted lips. 

It wasn’t a kiss, but he still felt Eitrigg react to it. The orc tensed and looked down at him. His brown eyes studied the human’s face, flashing as the fire in front of them smoldered and gave off its final sparks into the night.

Tirion felt his cock, long abandoned, twitch against the front of his linen pants. Forcing himself to focus once more, he willed the thought and the ache from his mind. He had only been away from his wife for two months, he chastised himself, how could he be thinking this way, and about a male orc, nonetheless?

‘I am stronger than this,’ he tried again, but the rush of blood didn’t leave him. ‘By the Light, that is one line I cannot—I will not cross. Not here. Not with him. I can’t—’

Tirion didn’t realize he had squeezed closed his eyes until he forced them open to look up at the orc now watching him with concern. Taking a moment to find his voice, the paladin let his jaw go slack. It was Eitrigg who finally spoke. 

“Let me?” He murmured in broken Common. His beard brushed Tirion’s cheek when he shifted his weight. It felt coarse and foreign against the human’s skin, so unlike Karanda’s soft umber locks. It should have put him off, but its strangeness only made his heart quicken. 

He swallowed, resting a hand against Eitrigg’s shoulder, praying the gesture would make up for his half-hearted protest. “I have a wife,” he tried. The orc shifted slightly to face him, and their thighs rubbed together beneath the blanket. 

When he spoke again, it was even more strained and uninspired than before. “A _mate,_” he chose the Orcish word, but his lips struggled to form it. Hearing the way it sounded on his tongue, he hurried to switch back to Common. “You know this, Eitrigg. Please.”

It seemed for a moment the orc might protest at once, but he didn’t, at least not yet. He softened his grip slightly, then leaned back, opening his arms to Tirion. After a few weighty moments and a final thought paid to the throbbing between his legs, the paladin accepted, shifting to lay with his face between Eitrigg’s pecs. 

He could feel his heartbeat and the murmur building in Eitrigg’s chest before it finally left his lips. “_Mate_ is gone,” the orc pointed out, switching between the tongues more fluidly, “And you seem stressed.”

‘I am stressed,’ Tirion wanted to admit, but he willed that confession away. Instead he shifted slightly and pushed their torn blanket to the side with his foot. He now lay against him more fully, and he cursed himself for how good it felt. 

Eitrigg’s skin was hot against his lips. His thick hair tickled his nose when he breathed, his hand felt strong against the small of his back. When he shifted, his thigh brushed against the tent in Tirion’s pants and drew a sharp moan from his lips.

The orc didn’t repeat the gesture. He didn’t need to. Tirion’s hips reacted on their own, rolling against the side of his leg and shaking when that much-needed pressure returned. An uncomfortable silence set in. Eitrigg seemed to be holding his breath, but then he whispered a soft and tentative “Please.”

Tirion dug his fingers into the dirt beside them when he heard it. He begged his body, and the orc, not to react again. “I can’t, Eitrigg,” he muttered through gritted teeth, “You know I can’t.”

“You can,” Eitrigg murmured. His hand left Tirion’s waist to toy instead with his hair. The paladin had never expected an orc’s touch to be so soft, but despite his hand’s size and the callouses on his palm, he somehow managed to soothe him. 

Closing his eyes, Tirion took in every gesture, from the kind attention Eitrigg paid to his ear to the heat of his wrist against the side of his neck. 

His tenderness was perhaps what had surprised Tirion the most. Everything he had thought and imagined about the orc and his people were proven wrong, time and again. While Tirion’s own kind rejected and scorned his choice, the orc had accepted him, appreciated him. 

This was the side he had chosen, and this was the bed he had made. Inhaling and taking a moment to cast his doubts to the side, he finally conceded with his lips pressed against the orc’s skin:

“Yes. All right. I can.”

With that, Eitrigg nodded, and offered a sympathetic look barely visible in the shadows. Tirion didn’t let himself linger to watch it, however. He shifted, scooted up, and then pressed his face into the orc’s coarse beard. Spreading his legs slightly, he let Eitrigg’s hand wander between them and his fingers loosen the cord holding his tented pants in place.

The orc’s hand was gentle, surprisingly so, when he gave Tirion’s cock a slight squeeze. The paladin gasped and shuddered, and, with his face hidden against the orc’s neck and with no one to watch them in the deserted clearing, his vows and all he had left behind started to waver, then vanish from his mind.

All that was left in their place was the orc’s hand palming his cock and the way he ached and rocked up into that welcome touch.


	25. Shower Sex (Thalyssra/Jaina)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break on updating this! Job search stuff took over for a while, but I am planning to finish the rest of these prompts as soon as possible!

Jaina leaned back against the smooth stone wall of the shower, letting the water spray against her chest and trickle down between her legs. The magical apparatus hovered over her head, humming and bobbing as it adjusted to her height. She closed her eyes. 

With each inhale, she savored the delicate scent twilight jasmine. It pervaded the small enclosure, clinging to the mist and enveloping her in a soothing embrace. Running her fingers through her hair, she turned and let it cascade from her scalp to the small of her back. Warm and inviting, smooth and soft, the scented water threaded between each wavy lock. Any apprehension she had harbored when she arrived in Suramar seemed to melt away, and when she felt the door slide open beside her, she just turned and smiled. 

Thalyssra stepped in from the violet bath chamber and moved to stand before her. Jaina’s gaze rose from her bare chest to her white-lit eyes: eyes that pierced the steam like the moon breaking through the clouds. 

The elf rested her hands on either side of Jaina's waist, and the human felt her cheeks grow flush. “Thalyssra,” she murmured, and the Nightborne nodded. When she leaned into her embrace the magical spout ascended. Its water cascaded over her shoulder and trickled into the small space between them.

Turning her head, Jaina rested her cheek against the swell of Thalyssra’s breast. Jaina’s fingers wandered to toy with her flushed violet nipple, and when she drew out a gasp the human felt it quivering against her own heated skin.

They lingered like that for a moment before Thalyssra finally spoke, “I hope the shower lives up to your expectations.” It wasn’t a question, but rather a declaration, as if she already anticipated the answer. 

“It does,” Jaina confirmed, somewhat needlessly. Her hand cupped Thalyssra’s breast, and she looked up, a grin twitching at the corners of her lips. 

The shal’dorei did nothing to hide her pleasure. Her own sharp teeth flashed between lips parted in a smile. She released her hold on Jaina’s waist for a moment to gesture towards the device that now bobbed gracefully a few inches above their entwined forms. 

Jaina followed her gaze, and, as if it sensed her movements, the stream parted to avoid her face. Thalyssra’s other hand tightened around her, her fingers splaying across the small of her back and drawing her in until she could feel the elf’s soft hair brushing against her lower abdomen. 

She gasped. Thalyssra rubbed gently against her, but her focus remained on the magical shower humming and dancing above them. 

“As you can see,” she noted, as casually as one might discuss the weather, “It is enchanted to accommodate anyone who passes beneath it. It can even choose its temperature and smell depending on the mood.”

“Is that so?” Normally Jaina would have been fascinated, asking questions and begging to know more. With Thalyssra’s skin against hers and a wetness that had nothing to do with the shower gathering between her swollen lips, however, it was hard to focus on anything but the other woman's warmth.

For all the airs she was putting on, Thalyssra, too, seemed to be less focused than she let on. Even while she waved her hand and sent an arcane pulse overhead, her other hand slipped up Jaina’s spine to toy with the ends of her white-and-blonde hair. 

By the time the spicy scent of sandalwood and cinnamon flooded the small enclosure, the Nightborne’s other hand had snaked between their bodies to press firmly between the folds of the human’s slit. 

Jaina gasped and leaned her head back against the smooth shower wall. She arched her back, and when she did the shower spilled over her skin, down in trails between her breasts and over the gentle curve of her abdomen. Thalyssra’s two fingers slid on either side of her clit, before pulling back slightly to toy with its swollen tip. 

A jolt passed through her, and her knees buckled. If not for the strong hand pressed into the small of her back, Jaina wasn’t certain she could have stayed upright. 

The elf’s skills proved far more extensive than even Jaina had hoped. Her white eyes, cool and intense, searched her face as her fingers moved in tandem, their tips vibrating with the arcane energy she had drawn to her aid. When she leaned in, Jaina’s whole body tensed. The quivering shook her down to her core, and all she could do was shudder, throw back her head, and let the water drip from her collarbone down to the flushed pink skin of her nipples. 

All the while, the First Arcanist remained focused. The only evidence that she was just as taken as Jaina came with a slight hitch in her breath, and a pause in her spell when Jaina clenched and cried out her name.


	26. Asphyxiation (Azshara/Jaina)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some serious dubcon here. Please be advised!

The black stone floor felt frigid beneath the heels of Jaina’s hands. Her nails struggled to find purchase, but all she managed to do was scratch up a few grains of sand that got trapped beneath her nails. She leaned back. It was all she could manage when the queen’s shadow passed over her. 

All around her was cold—dank and hollow—chilling even to a mage who had known nothing but ice and storms. Swallowing, she looked up into Azshara’s face, watching her slit pupils swell and her eyes burn red and orange in the shadows. 

Despite the desolate dread that settled in the pit of Jaina’s chest, she couldn’t help but quiver and hold her breath as the naga’s tentacles slid past either side of her hips. 

“Well, well,” the queen murmured, taking her time to enunciate every sound. Her voice was silky and refined. It echoed off every sea-rock wall of her chamber, singing like a Highborne harp. “How lucky to find you alone, little human. I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch your name.”

Jaina kept her teeth clenched together. As enticing as the naga sounded, she wasn’t about the reveal more than she had to. For all she knew, the queen might already know who she was, but she wasn’t about to be toyed with, nonetheless.

Setting her lips in a line and tilting up her chin, Jaina watched her face as her gills parted and she dipped down to stare Jaina square in the eyes. 

Azshara’s change in stance shifted her tentacles, as well. When she leaned in, they spilled over the human’s lap and enveloped her booted feet. For all Jaina’s resolve to stay quiet and unresponsive, she couldn’t hold back her gasp. Even through her clothing, she could feel their wetness and weight: the way they rippled and clung to every surface their suckers passed over. 

Horror and disgust and intrigue welled up in the pit of Jaina’s chest. She wanted to jerk away, but the storm that churned inside her left her frozen in place. All she could do was watch and hold her breath. Her lips parted in protest, but it proved to be too little, too late. 

By the time she spoke, her voice was choked and strained. All she could manage was a whispered “what?” and a gasp that betrayed her terrified fascination. 

Azshara’s lips curled into a smile. She leaned forward, and a single tentacle crept up from Jaina’s hip to nudge instead at the point of her chin. “What did you say, human?” The naga searched her, and Jaina wanted nothing more than to look away. But she didn’t; she couldn’t, not with the larger woman bearing down on her like this. 

“I said,” Jaina swallowed, and tried again, though only with marginal success, “That I don’t know why you are doing this. I won’t betray anyone to you.”

“Is that so?” Again, Azshara smirked, and again Jaina felt as if the wind had been knocked from her chest. The tentacle beneath her chin squirmed against her, its tip trailing down the curve of her throat before slithering beneath her braid. 

Cold and strong, it clung to her. It smelled brackish, like the deepest reaches of the sea. Jaina wrinkled her nose but she couldn’t escape it. She just shuddered and shrugged her shoulders in a last-ditch attempt to break free from a hold she knew she couldn’t resist.

Azshara must have felt her shaking, because all at once, she struck. Lunging forward, she pinned Jaina to the ground with the weight of her abdomen. Her tentacles splayed out in every direction, catching wrists and ankles, hips and thighs in a choking embrace. But unfortunately, that wasn’t the worst of it. 

Just as Jaina cried out and her shoulder blades hit the stone floor, the tentacle around her neck made its move, as well. It burrowed under her braid and then wrapped in a single hook around her neck. By the time the human finally got her wits it was already tight like a collar. She tried to cry out, but it tightened. 

Her jaw went slack, and she stared up in horror and disgust and intrigue at the fish-like face now hovering inches from hers. 

“How quaint of you to try to resist a queen,” Azshara purred, her voice rippling in the heavy air. “Your species certainly has grown, but you will still bow before the might of the Highborne, gasping and crying for air as you sink…”

She might have said more after that, but Jaina didn’t make sense of it. She was too taken by the tentacle squirming and tightening around her neck. Its cold skin shook her, but when she tried to gasp she couldn’t find the air to expel the sound. Instead all she found was tightness, emptiness: a void that ebbed at the corners of her thoughts, scattering across her field of vision, threatening darkness with every second that passed in that hold.

She dug her nails into the ground, but she couldn’t lift her palms from the ice-cold stone. She reached out for the frost and storms she had relied on to save her, but she couldn’t pierce through the fog.

All she found inside her and around her was darkness and a kind of euphoria that built as her daze grew stronger. The queen’s tentacles slid over her hips and between her legs, and she was helpless to resist their probing. Spreading her thighs, she yielded. Her nails scratched up sand, and her throat ached in the naga’s choking, relentless hold. 

It wasn’t until she heard the First Arcanist’s cry and saw a spark of arcane bursting over her head that the details of the chamber around her finally started to come back into focus and she found herself with her tunic hiked up and her thighs quivering and wet.


	27. Distracted Sex (Flynn/Shaw)

Mathias Shaw let out a sharp exhale, the hand surrounding his spyglass tightening its grip as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He made a point to squint, his brows furrowed, and his jaw squared in a meaningful show of resistance. 

But it wasn’t the Horde encampment at the other end of his scope that demanded his concentration. The two orcs seated around the campfire only moved to pass a pipe between them, and occasionally, very occasionally, to stoke the embers of their dying flames. It would have been easy work—relaxing, even—if he had been at it alone. 

He had been a fool to think he would need backup for a mission of this nature, especially when his backup seemed set on creating more problems than he solved. 

They stood only inches apart, but while Shaw remained poised, Flynn Fairwind kicked his boots in the sand. He rustled through his overcoat, taking it off, shaking out the pockets, and all but smacking Shaw in the face when he plunged his arms back into its sleeves. He patted his chest, then shoved his hand into its white fleece lining to extract a slim silver flask.

This must have been what was making him restless, because he wasted no time in unscrewing it. He threw back his head and took a swig, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Shaw willed his expression to remain neutral, but he couldn’t help but notice the way the pirate’s hair swayed and danced about his face in the waning light of day. 

Shaw pursed his lips. Flynn must have noticed, because he laughed a bit too loudly and shoved the flask in the space between them. “Eh, sorry mate,” he quipped, “It seems I’ve forgotten my manners. Here you go. Take a sip. There’s a bottle back in the boat if we need it.”

While part of him wanted to accept the pirate’s offer, it felt too much like a concession for Shaw’s taste. The last thing he wanted was to give the pirate the impression that this was normal, or even _acceptable_ behavior for an Si:7 operative. With another inhale, he squared his shoulders and angled himself away from the other man. 

When he pressed the spyglass back to his eye and relocated the orcs, however, he found the two asleep with their heads bowed together. 

It was going to be a long night. 

After a few awkward moments, Flynn withdrew the flask. Shaw listened as he gulped down another swig, then squirreled it away in his inner pocket. “Your loss, mate,” the pirate shrugged and staggered forward two steps. He swayed, and his coat brushed against the side of Shaw’s knee. 

Shaw recoiled slightly, but it was too late. Before he knew it, Flynn had reached for his spyglass. Caught off guard by the sudden gesture and the stench of rum on the pirate’s breath, Shaw loosened his grip. Flynn tugged at its golden shaft, then pressed their cheeks flush together. 

His beard tickled the spymaster’s jaw as he forced his way up to the eyepiece. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Shaw muttered under his breath. His frown only deepened their contact. 

Acting as though he hadn’t heard, Flynn made a show of staring into the lens. “Are they dead out there, do you think?” He chuckled: a laugh Shaw hoped wasn’t as loud as it sounded against the side of his face. 

“They’re sleeping,” Shaw answered, hoping that would be the last of it. As always, however, the pirate had more to say. 

“Well then, guess our work here is done. What do you say, Shaw? Want to retire for the night? We could head back to the boat, take a cue from our orc friends here. A few drinks and then we curl up on the beach. What do you say?”

Now Shaw was sure he was being too loud, but the weight of the pirate’s suggestion made it difficult to care. A certain heat rose to the tips of his ears, but he hoped Flynn Fairwind was too drunk to notice. 

Pausing, then clearing his throat, he mustered a no-nonsense reply: “We agreed to see this mission through until sunrise. That is what we’ll be doing.”

“Oh, come on,” Flynn persisted. With a flick of his wrist, he swatted the scope back into the spymaster’s grip, but made no move to back away or change his position. Instead he lingered with his shoulder nudging Shaw’s chest and the fleece of his coat collar rubbing against the side of his jaw. 

Shaw opened his mouth to object again, but the pirate was quick to cut him off. He looked up at him. His grin widened, and he said, loudly, and pointedly: “I’ve got a bedroll back there with our name on it. I’ll even let you top.”

The spymaster had come to expect a lot from Flynn Fairwind, but at times he still managed to catch him off guard. The bluntness and _audacity_ of his offer made Shaw’s jaw go slack, and by the time he had the gumption to respond, Flynn had managed to lean in even closer. 

“We are on a mission,” he managed, but his voice was far too strained. With their bodies flush together, and the pirate’s rum-laden breath hot on his lips, there was nowhere to look but into Flynn Fairwind’s eyes. They were wide and deep blue like the sea in the twilight. He cursed the anticipation he found there and cursed himself even more for staring.

But Flynn, for his part, remained just as nonchalant as ever. He shrugged. His lips curled into a smirk beneath his moustache, and he swayed forward until their chins brushed. 

“Come on, Shaw, live a little. It’s not like these orcs are going anywhere.”

And then, in a whisper that somehow managed to be even louder than his chuckle, he added: “Or we could do it right here if you want. Come on, Shaw, what do you say?”

Before Shaw had a chance to formulate his response, or even to recollect his wits, he felt the calloused tips of the captain’s fingers rubbing against his leather codpiece. 

He tensed, and let the hand clutching the spyglass fall to his right side. His other arm struck quickly, but rather than grabbing Flynn’s wrist as he had intended it pressed firm against the back of his hand. It was only after Shaw realized what he was doing that he forced himself to protest. 

“As I said, we are still on a mission.”

“Then why are you cupping my hand, mate?”

“I’m not—”

But he was. He was, and there was no denying it. Sloshed as he was, even Flynn could see through his guise. With a sloppy smile and a laugh that tickled his lips, the pirate curled his fingers and sought out the lacings holding the garment in place.

It took a few moments of fumbling, but soon the codpiece swung free, and Shaw's linen undergarment was exposed to the cool sea air and Flynn Fairwind’s curious touch. 

Pressing the back of his head against the wood wall of their lookout, Shaw exhaled. He wasn’t sure if it was exasperation or need that left him huffing, but for once he willed himself not to inquire. He focused instead on Flynn’s fingers popping open his buttons and then freeing him from his smallclothes. They wrapped around the base of his shaft, and in a few strokes brought him to hardness. 

Flynn stepped in, and this time when he pressed their faces together Shaw didn’t think to flinch away. Instead he huffed, then drew in a breath, then tasted the pirate’s breath on the tip of his tongue. 

His grasp felt nice, but in an irritating sort of way. The rum made his strokes uneven and a bit looser than Shaw would have like, but Shaw wasn’t prepared to take over, either. It was one thing to consent to this. It was another to give up his watch entirely. 

Reluctantly, he turned his head back towards the camp, and with a shudder lifted the spyglass and pressed the eyepiece to his right eye. 

Just as Flynn rubbed his thumb over the tip of his cock and drew a gasp from between his gritted teeth, he located a trail of smoke in the sky. He followed it down to the deep orange embers of a dying fire, and then to the log behind it. 

There a single orc slept with his cheek resting against the wood. His companion was nowhere in sight. 

Shaw’s cock twitched in the pirate’s grip, but his heart sank in his chest. He slammed closed the spyglass, then turned with another force to make Flynn relax his fingers.

He could see a question forming on the captain’s lips, but he cut him off, pressing a finger against them. “One of the orcs is gone,” he hissed, then looked down at his bare cock. ‘We need to stop this,’ he wanted to add, but he couldn’t force the sound from his lungs. 

Flynn, as always, seemed to have no trouble speaking. “Gone?” He asked. “What do you mean _gone_?”

It seemed for a moment that even the pirate was concerned, and Shaw reached down to tuck himself back into his trousers. It was only then that he realized what Flynn was doing. His downcast eyes were looking at his own pants under his coat as he unbuckled the belt, then unbuttoned the garment itself. 

Incredulous, and, frankly, startled, Shaw froze. His momentary hesitation was all Flynn needed to pry his cock from his hand, and before he knew it, the pirate was grasping them both. He gasped. Flynn clutched their cocks flush together. When he stroked them again, Shaw knew nothing except the tightness of his grip and the way his skin throbbed and burned against him. 

His breath quickened, and when he inhaled, he could have sworn he tasted the musk of his pre leaking onto Shaw’s own wet tip. 

They were in danger. They would be caught, cocks out, and weapons forgotten. Shaw’s pulse throbbed in his ears and his mind struggled against the pleasure building between his legs. But from Flynn’s hitching breath to the way his shaft rubbed him from balls to head, the pirate, once again, got the best of him. 

Groaning, Shaw threw back his head against the wall of their lookout. His spyglass clattered to the ground, and his hand, now bereft of its smoothness, splayed out against the wall. His balls tightened, and the tension that built beneath Flynn’s hand all but dragged him to his release. 

Crying out at full volume, he threw back his head, then turned at looked up at the sky. The trail of campfire smoke had faded between the stars, and the twilight had yielded to an impenetrable shroud of darkness.


	28. Spitroasting (Shaw/Flynn/Tandred)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying my best to finish, I swear. Thasstira and Thraina are all I have left, and I will complete them, I promise!

Flynn groaned as the calloused side of the Spymaster’s thumb grazed the nape of his neck. The rogue’s deft fingers threaded into his hair and yanked off the tie holding the strands in place. All at once, his auburn locks tumbled onto his shoulders, then swung forward to hang by either side of his face. He huffed and shook his head, unsure if he wanted to regain some of his field of vision or to hide his flush behind it, or some combination thereof.

It didn’t take long, however, until another hand—slimmer, but no softer on the palm than Shaw’s—made the decision for him. Tandred reached down to tuck his hair back behind his ear. The captain cupped his cheek, then rustled his beard, before seizing him beneath the chin. Their eyes met. Flynn chuckled slightly. Having never been one for silence, he had no trouble finding his voice, not even with Tandred’s half-laced pants only inches away from his face.

“Well, I’m glad somebody’s ready,” he joked, glancing pointedly at the bulge straining against the leather cords. The pirate’s face felt hot, but he wasn’t deterred. This wasn’t, after all, the most awkward position he’d found himself in—not even close.

But as always, the Spymaster didn’t share his air of nonchalance. Even as he laughed, Shaw tightened his grip. Flynn heard him clear his throat, and then sensed him and Tandred exchanging glances over his head. It didn’t take long until Tandred stepped closer, his erection now close enough to Flynn’s lips that, had Shaw not been grasping his hair, he could have leaned forward to kiss it. 

He didn’t have to make the move on his own, however. All at once, Shaw pushed him, and he didn’t stop until Flynn’s nose pressed flush against the tent. The sudden impact caught Flynn off guard, and he gasped; his groan all but got lost against the tight brown leather to the left of the half-open fly. 

“Easy, easy,” the pirate reached up and grasped onto the captain’s hip. He managed to push back against Shaw’s hold, just long enough to suck down a breath and cast a glance up in Tandred’s direction. He was surprised to find the blond smirking, the corners of his lips twitching under his thick mustache. 

He was even more surprised by the way he laughed when their eyes met, and the comradery in his voice when he murmured: “Is he always like this?”

“Shaw?” Flynn tried to look over his shoulder, but that proved to be too much for the Spymaster. Again, Shaw tightened his grip, and again he rubbed his nose against Tandred’s cock. Determined to finish, Flynn nodded and managed a low, muffled grunt: “Uh huh, yeah, just like this, all the time.”

“Fairwind,” Shaw warned as he dragged his fingers up over his scalp. His tone wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t warm, either. Instead he was all business, as always, with the heel of his palm pressed against the crown of Flynn’s head and his other hand dropping down to tug at the pirate’s belt. 

“Spread your legs,” he commanded. Flynn sighed and shook his head slightly but wasted no time to comply. 

“All right, all right, mate,” he muttered, “No need to show off for the captain here. We get it. You Stormwind types love to feel _big_. It’s all—”

Flynn felt someone give his hair another yank, but much to his surprise, this time it wasn’t his Stormwind lover. Instead it was Tandred’s long fingers that tangled in his auburn locks, and Tandred who pressed his lips flush against his half-exposed shaft. 

The shock of it all stole the words from Flynn Fairwind’s lips. With his jaw slack, it didn’t take much for the captain to get his head into his mouth. 

Though Flynn, for his part, didn’t have much interest in stopping him, either. With little more than a muffled quip, he dropped the jest and pursed his lips around him. His own hand moved from Tandred’s hip to his fly and pushed the leather flap out of the way. Encircling his fingers around the base gave him more leverage, and he swallowed as well as he could with two men’s fingers caught up in his hair. 

One hand gave him a yank while the other palm held his head steady. Sucking down a breath through his nose, he went in, and buried his face in Tandred’s linen tunic. He smelled of the sea and the beer the two Kul Tirans had shared while they waited for Shaw to return from his daily duties.

Shaw, too, was done with waiting, as Flynn quickly found out. Just when the pirate had accepted his lover would be setting his pace, Shaw removed his hand from his head and gave his pants a tug to the floor. A burst of cool air washed down the back of his legs, but then Shaw’s thighs were on him. His calloused hand rubbed something slick between his cheeks, and his knees dug in and locked him into place.

The weight of the Spymaster’s body against his robbed him, once more, of any freedom in his sucks. He quickly withdrew his hand, and, at Shaw’s urging, swallowed the captain whole. His cock pressed against the back of Flynn’s throat and the hair at his base rubbed against the pirate’s mustache. 

There was no time for breathing, and no space to let out a gasp. There was only the feel of his throat twitching to accommodate the other man and Shaw’s finger pressing into his hole. His own cock twitched between his legs, but neither captain nor master reached to relieve him. Instead, Tandred grasped his shoulders and Shaw forced open his legs. 

They took a moment, readjusted, and then Flynn felt a wet hand clamping down on his hip and a cock filling him in one steady thrust. 

His knees buckled as he felt the pressure against his inner wall, but there was nowhere for him to go. All he could do was yield to their grip. Cock throbbing and thighs tensing, he gave in and let Shaw set his rhythm.

The Spymaster thrust forward, and he swallowed the captain. The captain rolled back, and Shaw withdrew, leaving him open and desperate to be filled again.

A tremble overtook him, and he all but choked when he tried to gasp. He couldn’t see their faces, but from the way they leaned in and shifted their cocks inside him, Flynn knew, over his head, they were kissing. 

He didn’t have time to dwell on the image, however. Before he could try to lift his gaze, his face was lost, once more, in the folds of Tandred’s tunic. Shaw let out a murmur of approval, then rocked back, then slammed forward, with Flynn’s ponytail caught in his fist.


	29. Handjob (Anduin/Arator)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned to do Thasstira, but it wasn't working for me. I hope this is acceptable instead!

It started with a hand on Arator’s knee. Closing his hymnal, he brought it to rest in his lap. His long brows furrowed as he scanned the cover, following each golden stroke and swirl without really reading the letters. 

Sitting beside the High King of the Alliance was daunting enough, but with his hand on Arator’s leg and their shoulders gently brushing together with every note they sang, it was difficult for the half-elf to keep the blush from his face. 

His father’s back loomed large in front of him. He swallowed, and his prayers to the Light grew more frantic every time Anduin shifted. If they could just make it through the service, if they could just make it back to the Keep, maybe his legs would stop shaking. 

The glance he and Anduin exchanged before bowing their heads, however, revealed much of the king’s intentions. Confident that the rest of the congregation had already closed their eyes, Anduin flashed an pointed smile. His pale cheeks flushed. His blue eyes scanned Arator’s face before looking down at the front of his armor.

Just as the priest started to intone his blessing, Anduin’s fingers crept under the leather-bound hymnal to rest against the tent in Arator’s robe. His cock twitched, unbidden, at the contact, and Anduin wrapped his fingers around it. 

The prayer lasted for what seemed like an eternity. 

But then it ended, and the worshipers filed out from the pews. Anduin’s fingers brushed the back of his hand as he faced his father and hastily explained that he and Anduin intended to linger and say their own prayers. His stomach sank a bit at the lie, but what could he do? His cock ached in his smallclothes, and every time Anduin moved he felt his heart clench in his chest.

At least his excuse wasn’t entirely untrue. As soon as the two boys ducked into the transept and backed into an open confessional, Arator’s prayers started to tumble from his lips. With the back of his head pressed against the hard wood, he let his golden eyes slide closed, and murmured softly, and in turn, “King Anduin, oh, Light, oh please, Anduin—”

The king’s lips pressed against the curve of his neck, and his hand unlatched the belt cinching Arator’s robe. 

With it loose, Anduin could finally hike up the hem. Arator felt cool air wash over his thighs and didn’t dare peek down into Anduin’s searching eyes lest he lose his nerve. He just nodded. His blond hair swung against his shoulder even as Anduin’s bangs tickled his cheek. He could feel the human’s heart racing and the way his breath catch in his throat. He could sense the man’s desperation as he rolled his hip forward and dragged his codpiece against Arator’s thigh.

Arator dimly wondered if he should reach down and unlatch it, but he didn’t trust his shaking fingers not to fumble with the clasp. After a moment, even those concerns, however, were long forgotten. Anduin’s palm returned to the bulge in his smallclothes, and he knew nothing except the surprising strength of his grip and way his thumb nudged against his swollen head. 

He whimpered and arched his back. His ears bumped against the confessional wall, but he barely felt the contact. Consumed as he was by the throb of his cock in Anduin’s hand and the heat of his breath on his neck, all other feelings and thoughts and concerns faded, then vanished, like a lamp being dimmed to darkness. 

His knees buckled as Anduin slid his palm up his cock and smeared the pre-cum that had leaked from his slit. As the king started to find a rhythm with his strokes, he had to lean against the bench to his left and dig his nails into the edge to keep his body upright. 

Turning slightly, he pressed a kiss to Anduin’s forehead. The human murmured something soft in response, before stepping to the side and leaning against him with his arm pressed against Arator’s abdomen. 

It didn’t take long before the half-elf’s body clenched, and the tightness building beneath the base of his cock begged to be released. Biting his lip, he wedged himself between the end of the bench and the strong line of Anduin's torso. He could feel his heart pounding as the king quickened his strokes. 

One jerk forward, then a return. Anduin's thumb dragged along the top of his shaft with practiced fluidity while his fingers rested between his base and the sensitive skin of his sac. Every nerve seemed to spark to life, and then Arator’s hips jerked forward, and he gasped. 

His cry to the Light echoed off every wall. After a few more thrusts into Anduin’s palm his need overtook him, and he came hard in a spurt that splattered across the stone between their feet. 

The wave of pleasure that washed over him chased away any guilt he might have felt at desecrating church property. All he knew in that moment was relief, and the lightheadedness that came as he struggled to catch his breath.

He leaned against Anduin’s shoulder. His eyes slid open, and he gazed up into Anduin's face. 

Rather than need or satisfaction, however, he found something unreadable on Anduin’s lips. They pursed and trembled lightly, and he seemed to be staring at nothing and everything at once. Worrying something was wrong, Arator rose and pressed an almost-frantic kiss to the line of his jaw. 

That contact seemed to bring Anduin back to the moment. He turned, and his lips parted in a smile. The glow of Arator’s eyes no longer cast shadows between Anduin's furrowed brows. With a nod, he released Arator’s robe from his clean hand while bringing the other to his lips and lapping at it almost sheepishly. 

Arator willed himself not to dwell on that look. Whatever had entered Anduin's mind in that moment was gone, and it would be unfair to press him on it. Standing upright, he rested his cheek against the top of Anduin’s head. The priest’s arms encircled his waist, and they stood together in silence.


	30. Temperature Play (Thrall/Jaina)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, it took me a while, but I'm finally done! I realized last night the irony of ending here, when the first nsfw content I ever wrote for the Warcraft fandom was Thrall and Jaina in a tent at the tournament, as well. Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed it! If there's a pairing I didn't do you'd really like to see, mention it in a comment and I'll consider doing it next October. :D Thank you so much for reading!

Thrall gasped and leaned his head back against the frame of his bed. The cool metal pressing against his neck through his hair might have made him shiver under other circumstances. But as it was, his face felt too hot to pay it much heed. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the soft hands working across his pecs and the gentle heat burgeoning at their point of contact.

Outside his tent, he could hear the cheers of orcs and humans rising from the tournament arena. The sound soon got lost under the hiss of his forceful exhale. 

“Ah,” he managed to gasp when Jaina’s warmed fingers found a particularly sensitive spot at the crook of his neck. The heat and pressure spread through his muscle, sending a jolt of pain and pleasure from his shoulder to the back of his ear. Grunting, he willed his body to calm. 

When he finally relaxed his brows and opened his eyes it was to offer the mage a sheepish look. “Sorry,” he apologized, though she seemed nonplussed. He didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. 

She simply shook her head, cupping her small hand around the base of his neck and letting heat pour forth from her palm to what felt like the pit of his chest. “You seem tense,” she pointed out, and the no-nonsense way she said it brought heat of a different sort to his cheeks. 

He nodded, and rested his own large hand atop of hers. “I am,” he admitted in a low voice, and then, even softer, added, “Thank you. I…have a lot on my mind.”

“I know,” she smiled and reached up with her free hand to tuck a few blonde locks behind her ear. Her hand moved from Thrall’s shoulder to his chest, and for a moment she sat in silence, brushing the tip of her finger through his chest hair. The heat she had conjured moments before started to fade, and for a time, there was only the familiar warmth of her own body rubbing against his. 

Even still, he felt bereft of it when she removed her fingers from his pec and reached back to undo her armor breastplate. He shivered slightly as he watched her unhook it, his mouth going dry as she eased it over her head and cast it to the side. It wasn’t long before her chest was bare to his gaze, and blood started to pool between his legs.

His cock twitched and he tried to sit up. Before he could cup her breast in his palm, however, a small hand splayed across his chest and stopped his forward movement. Eyes widening, he looked down at it, then back up at Jaina by his bedside. Worrying for a moment he had done something wrong, he opened his mouth, readied his apology, but fell silent at the gentle hum of her voice:

“No, lean back,” she gave him the slightest of nudges. There was something about how she said it—a kind of firmness without any force—that robbed him of what little will he might have had to question her. He just nodded and rested his head back against the pillow. With that, she dipped forward, murmured a spell under her breath, and sent a blue-white glow to the tip of her nails.

When she touched Thrall’s chest this time her fingers stung like the cold wind outside. Thrall’s body twitched, and his back arched up from the mattress. He didn’t know if he wanted more of it or less, but all he could do was let out a sharp exhale:

“Jaina?”

“Yes?”

Her tone and smile were innocent, but it was clear from the light in her eyes she knew exactly what she was doing. That alone made the orc fluster; he turned his head and prayed to the ancestors she wouldn’t notice. But when her cold thumb found his nipple his nerves sparked, and any hopes he had of maintaining composure died. 

His heels dug into the mattress. His chest rose and fell, and his braids quivered on either side of his face as he jerked and gasped and recoiled from the overwhelming sensation. Every spot she touched came to life, and when her fingers moved on to find a new target, the chill and wetness they left in their wake make his green skin prickle and ache. 

His jaw fell open. His tongue felt heavy pressed against his teeth, and his cock strained against the front of his linen pants, begging to feel the prickle and pain and delight of her icy touch. 

She made him wait, however. No matter how ragged his voice got, she took her time. When she finished teasing his nipples she moved on to the sharp lines of his abdomen, then down the side of his waist. By the time she made it to his hip he had to fight to keep from bucking in desperation. He wasn’t in the habit of pressing like this, but ancestors, he wasn’t sure how much more he could take!

She must have sensed it, too, because thankfully she didn’t make him wait much longer. With an appraising look, she nodded, then loosened the ties of his pants and let his cock spring free of their confines. With her eyes trained on his face and a satisfied grin on her lips, she leaned down, let her finger hover above his skin for a pause, then carefully slid it from his hairy base to his exposed head. 

Nothing, not even her teasing, had prepared him for it. He shuddered and his feet hit the mattress with enough force to make it groan beneath them. The spark of it all left him feeling weak and exposed, but above all he was desperate for more. 

Despite his dry lips and the slackness of his jaw, he managed to force out a gentle “please” before the next jolt from her fingers overtook him. 

He wasn’t even sure the sound had been heard under his gasp at first, but then Jaina shifted and murmured with her cold finger rubbing along his slit. “Please?” She repeated, as sweetly as ever, but with a tease that made him clench. “Please _what,_ Thrall? Please tell me what you want me to do.”

He knew she was taking pleasure in seeing him squirm, but he didn’t care. If anything, it made his cock ache and his pulse pound in his ears. It took a moment, but finally, he swallowed down the lump in his throat and managed to find his voice. It was ragged and strained, but at least, he hoped, it was enough to be understood:

“Please, Jaina. Please touch me. I can’t—”

“I know.” 

He couldn’t bring himself to look down at her to confirm, but he could have sworn he heard a smirk in her gentle voice. Shuddering, he dug his fingers into the mattress for support, and waited, flushed and wet and exposed, until the mage finally gave him what he desired. 

With his eyes clenched closed, he could only sense her weight shifting. Then, just as he drew in a breath, he felt two hands wrapping around his cock: one cold, and the other warmed with the spell she had used on the knot in his shoulder.

One hand made him quiver, while the other soothed. One made his nerves dance and his hips buck off of the bed, and the other eased him closer to his release. Gritting his teeth, he yielded to it all, until he knew nothing except her hands stroking his cock and the ache that built, then tensed, then released in a spurt across the bare skin of her chest.


End file.
